Chapter 3 - The Folder of Truth
Keaton walked into the kitchen,
his face turning a deep,
uncomfortable shade of red.
"You're joking,"
he said,
his voice rising in pitch.
"I’ve had a long day,
and this is what you serve me?"
"You make twelve thousand dollars a month,"
"and you’re humiliating your husband over a cheap cup of noodles?"
Bernice slammed her hand on the table,
the cups of noodles rattling.
"This is an insult!"
she shrieked,
"I am a guest in this house,
and I demand respect!"
I took a slow,
deliberate sip of the salty broth,
letting the silence stretch until it became unbearable for them.
"Respect is earned,
Bernice,"
I said,
setting the plastic fork down.
"And as for you,
Keaton,
your long day doesn't entitle you to my labor if you aren't a partner in this home."
I walked into our bedroom,
the air cooler and quieter there,
and grabbed the blue accordion folder from the top shelf of the closet.
I had been preparing this for weeks,
long before the promotion,
because the math in my head had stopped making sense.
I returned to the kitchen and dropped the folder on the table,
the sound heavy and final.
Inside were eighteen months of bank statements,
every single line highlighted in different colors.
"The mortgage,"
I said,
pointing to the yellow lines.
"Three thousand dollars every month,"
"Paid entirely by me."
"Groceries,"
I moved my finger to the green lines.
"Nearly fifteen hundred a month,"
"Paid entirely by me."
"Utilities,
maintenance,
your car insurance,"
"Paid by me."
Keaton tried to grab the papers,
but I swiped them away.
"And then there's the special fund,"
I said,
looking directly at Bernice.
I pulled out the transfer records,
a stack of papers that showed over thirty thousand dollars.
"Emergency dental work,"
I read from the memo line of one.
"Roof repairs on your house,"
I read another.
"Advanced heart specialist fees,"
I read a third.
"I sent you all of this,
Bernice,"
"because you told me you were dying or your house was falling down."
The color drained from her face,
leaving her looking sallow and old.
"I...
I needed that money for other things,"
she blurted out,
her voice small.
"What other things?"
I demanded,
leaning over the table.
Before she could answer,
May you like
her phone on the table began to vibrate,
the screen flashing with a name that made Keaton’s breath hitch.
