I am forty-six years old, and I track every single dollar. Survival as a single mother working as a teller at the town bank means knowing exactly what you have.
When $20 vanished from my kitchen wallet, I felt a cold dread settle in.
I wiped down the counter, my pulse thrumming.
“Michael, come in here, please.”
My 16-year-old shuffled into the kitchen, his posture stiff.
“Yeah, Mom?”“Did you take twenty dollars from my red wallet?”
When $20 vanished from my kitchen wallet, I felt a cold dread settle in.
He shoved his hands into his pockets. “No.”
“Are you absolutely sure?”
“I said no, Mom. Why would I take your money?”
“Because it was there this morning, and now it’s gone.”
He broke eye contact, staring at the linoleum. “Well, I didn’t touch it.”“If you needed cash, you could work for it. Mr. Vance at the hardware store said he’d hire you.”
“I don’t want to work for Mr. Vance,” he muttered.
“Well, I didn’t touch it.”
“Mr. Vance is a good, hardworking man,” I pressed. “You could learn a lot from him.”
“I didn’t take your money!” Michael suddenly yelled.
“Then who did? It didn’t just walk away.”
“Maybe you lost it!” he argued.