It was the timing.
Some transfers happened while my mother was in hospice—when I was sleeping in hospital chairs, ordering late-night food, trusting my husband to handle things at home.
When Andrea told me, I sat quietly in her office, staring out at gray traffic.
“I want everything documented,” I said.
She nodded. “We will.”
A week later, Ethan asked to meet.
Against my better judgment, I agreed—but only in Andrea’s conference room.
He looked tired, older. His tie was crooked. He kept rubbing his wedding ring like he hadn’t realized it meant nothing now. Seeing him like that hurt more than I expected. This was the man I once waited up for, defended, planned a future with. Grief has layers. Betrayal adds more.
“I made mistakes,” he said.
I stayed silent.
“I was trying to help my brother. He would’ve lost everything.”
“You helped him with my money. Secretly. Repeatedly.”
He looked down. “I thought I could fix it before you noticed.”
There it was. The truth.
Andrea folded her hands. “Mr. Parker, are you confirming you moved marital funds without your wife’s knowledge?”
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