Three dots appeared, disappeared, then returned.
You need to stop treating everyone like an employee.
I called my mother.
She answered with a sigh.
“What have you said to your sister?”
“I asked about two transactions.”
“She is organizing the wedding and helping with your father.”
“What did the four thousand dollars pay for?”
“I don’t know every detail.”
“Then why are you defending it?”
“Because I know Delphine’s heart.”
“I am asking about Dad’s account, not her heart.”
My mother lowered her voice.
“You have always resented that people trust her.”
I looked at the invoice beside my hand.
“This is not about trust. It is about documentation.”
“You make everything sound so cold.”
“No. Numbers are cold. People decide what they mean.”
The following evening, I drove to my parents’ house with the statement and invoice.
Delphine was in the dining room sorting wedding invitation cards. My mother stood at the kitchen island arranging flowers in a blue vase. Dad sat near the window with a blanket across his knees.
I placed the documents on the table.
“This reimbursement was duplicated,” I said.
Delphine did not look at them.
“Dad knows I’m organizing things.”
“What things?”
“Family things.”
“Did he authorize this transfer?”
She folded her arms.
“He cannot sign every little receipt.”
“He can approve expenses through his tablet.”
My mother stepped between us.
“Simone, stop interrogating her.”
“I asked one question.”
“You are creating tension in front of your father.”
Dad’s hand lifted.
He struck the wooden side table beside his wheelchair three times.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Delphine glanced toward him.
My mother pretended not to notice.
I moved closer.
“Dad, does three mean no?”
He knocked three times again.
Delphine gathered the invitation cards.
“He is tired.”
Dad’s eyes sharpened.
I held up the bathroom invoice.
“Did you authorize Delphine to receive this amount?”
Three knocks.
My mother took the paper from my hand.
“This is upsetting him.”
“No,” I said. “Being ignored is upsetting him.”
Delphine pushed back her chair.
“I do not have to stand here while you accuse me of taking money.”
“Then show me the invoice.”
“I don’t keep every scrap of paper.”
“You are acting under a power of attorney. You are required to.”
Her face changed.
It was slight, but I saw it.
She had not expected me to know that.
“Get out,” my mother said.
I looked at Dad.
He tapped the table twice.
Two taps meant acknowledgment. I hear you. I understand.
“I’ll see you at therapy,” I told him.
My mother followed me to the door.
“You are going to tear this family apart over paperwork.”
“No,” I said. “Paperwork may be the only thing holding it together.”