But there was something off about the address.
Instead of my duplex on Maple Street, it listed an address I didn’t recognize.
“That’s not my address,” I said slowly. “I’ve never seen this account before in my life.”
Boyd’s jaw clenched.
“The address belongs to a mailbox rental place downtown. Edna has been intercepting all the statements. She told me she was helping you manage your finances because you were getting older and might have trouble keeping track of things.”
The words hit me like a slap.
“She said I was getting scenile.”
“Not in those words, but…” Boyd ran his hands through his hair. “God, Mom, I’m so stupid. She made it sound like she was protecting you. She said you were proud and might be embarrassed about needing help. So, it was better if I handled everything through her.”
I stared at the bank statements, watching the numbers blur as tears filled my eyes.
Month after month, $5,000 had been deposited into this fake account.
But the withdrawal patterns told a different story entirely.
The money wasn’t being saved or carefully managed.
It was being spent, often within days of each deposit.
“What has she been spending it on?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.
Boyd pulled out another set of papers, credit card statements, and receipts he’d apparently gathered from their home.
Spa treatments, designer clothes, girls trips to wine country with her friends, that expensive gym membership she just had to have, the personal trainer, the weekly manicures, the shopping sprees.
As he read off the list, I felt a strange detachment settle over me.
While I’d been skipping meals to afford my arthritis medication, Edna had been getting $100 facials.
While I’d been wearing the same winter coat for 8 years, she’d been buying designer handbags.
While I’d been lying awake at night worrying about money, she’d been living off my son’s generosity.
Generosity that had been meant for me.
“There’s more,” Boyd said quietly.
And something in his tone made my stomach clench.
“I found emails, correspondence between Edna and her sister, her friends. She’s been… she’s been bragging about it.”
He handed me printed copies of email exchanges, and as I read them, I felt something cold and hard crystallize in my chest.
“You should see how easy it is to manage Boyd’s guilt about his mother,” one email read. “I just mention how she’s struggling, and he immediately wants to throw money at the problem. Of course, I make sure the money goes where it’s actually needed, maintaining our lifestyle. His mother is surviving fine on her own. She’s tougher than he thinks.”
Another email was even worse.
“The old woman actually thinks Boyd doesn’t care about her anymore. It’s perfect. She’s too proud to ask for help directly. And Boyd feels like he’s doing his duty by sending money. Meanwhile, I get to enjoy the benefits without having to deal with a needy mother-in-law constantly asking for handouts.”
But the email that broke my heart was the most recent one sent just two weeks before the Christmas party.
“Boyd keeps talking about having his mother over for Christmas. I can’t stand the thought of her in my house, judging everything, making Boyd feel guilty about our success. Maybe it’s time to phase out the money transfers. She’s managed this long without them. She obviously doesn’t really need the help.”
I set the papers down with shaking hands.
Boyd was watching me carefully, his face a mixture of rage and guilt and something that might have been fear.
“Mom,” he said softly, “I am so, so sorry. I trusted her completely. I thought I was taking care of you.”
I looked around my small living room at the furniture I’d bought secondhand 20 years ago, the carpet worn thin from use, the windows that needed replacing, but that I couldn’t afford to fix.
Then I thought about Edna’s mansion, with its marble countertops and crystal chandeliers, and rooms bigger than my entire house.
“Where is she now?” I asked.
“At her sister’s. She left right after the party. Said she needed time to think. She hasn’t been answering my calls.”
I nodded slowly.
Of course, she’d run.
She knew exactly what she’d done, and she knew she’d been caught.
The question was what she planned to do next.
Try to deny everything, blame me somehow, or attempt to manipulate Boyd into forgiving her.
“Boyd,” I said carefully, “I need you to understand something. This isn’t just about the money.”
He frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“She didn’t just steal from me. She stole 3 years of your love, your concern, your care. You thought you were helping me, so you didn’t worry about whether I was okay. You didn’t call because you figured the money was enough. She made sure I felt abandoned by my own son while she enjoyed the benefits of your generosity.”
Boyd’s face crumpled and for a moment he looked exactly like the little boy who used to cry in my arms after his father died.
“I abandoned you,” he whispered. “I let her convince me that sending money was the same as caring.”
“You didn’t know,” I said.