“No. I froze a joint credit account attached primarily to my income.”
His face flushed red.
“Unlock it.”
“No.”
He stared at me.
Then he laughed.
“You’re seriously throwing away six years because Mom didn’t invite you to dinner?”
“This isn’t about dinner.”
“Then what is it about?”
I pushed a printed document across the desk toward him.
His expression changed at once.
It was a loan application containing my financial details.
And beneath them was a signature resembling mine.
Almost.
“You want to explain that?”
His eyes stayed fixed on the page.
“It was paperwork.”
“You signed my name.”
“I was going to tell you.”
“When?”
Nothing.
I placed another document beside the first.
A divorce petition.
His mouth fell open.
“You’re bluffing.”
“No.”
“You can’t just take everything.”
“I’m not taking anything that belongs to you.”
That statement frightened him more than any shouting could have.
He began walking back and forth.
“My mother was right about you. You’ve always thought you were better than us because you make more money.”
“No, Mark. I just finally realized you think my money belongs to you.”
Then his phone vibrated.
He looked at the screen.
The lender.
Again.
He stared at me with something approaching hatred.
“You planned this.”
“No. You did.”
