There they were, in a clear plastic sleeve. The deed, the tax assessments—nothing unusual. Just standard papers that certainly weren’t an emergency in the middle of winter.
Greg had lied. I opened a small drawer inside the desk. There was a tin of buttons, some old coins, and…
At the very back, tucked under a stack of sewing patterns, I felt something hard. It was a standard spiral notebook. The blue cover had a label that simply said: “Ledger.” I sat in her chair. The springs groaned under my weight.
I opened the first page. February 14, 1985. The date was underlined in red. Next to it was the amount: $150. And a short note: “Paid.”
I frowned. 1985. I was a foreman back then, making decent money, but $150 was a lot of cash in the mid-eighties. Where would she be “paying” that much?
I turned the page. February 21, 1985. Thursday. $150. February 28, 1985. Thursday. $150. March 7, 1985. Thursday. $150.
The columns of numbers went on forever. The ink changed from blue to black to ballpoint. The handwriting changed from firm and clear to the shaky script of her later years. But one thing never changed: the regularity.
Every Thursday. Every week. For forty years. I flipped through the pages, watching the history of our lives through dollar amounts.
1995. The amounts went up. $250. $300.
2008. The recession. A note: “Extra for the ’emergency’.” $1,000. Where did she get a thousand dollars in 2008?
I remember that year. We were eating tuna casserole and skipping the heat because things were tight. I wore my work boots until the soles fell off because we “couldn’t afford” new ones. And she was paying out a thousand dollars?
To whom? I felt a hot flash of anger. I unbuttoned my collar; I couldn’t catch my breath.
2015. $400 a week. 2024. The amounts had stabilized at $500. Every single Thursday.
I grabbed the calculator from the desk. My fingers fumbled over the buttons. I started adding it up.
Adding, multiplying, estimating the totals over the decades. By the time I finished, my ears were ringing. The total was astronomical.
This wasn’t just “savings.” This was enough to buy a second home in cash. It was the cost of the dental work I’d put off for ten years. It was the European cruise Eleanor always talked about but said we “couldn’t afford.”
“We have to save, Tom. Times are tough,” she’d always say. Times were tough.
And all that time, she had a black hole where our money was disappearing. My salary, her small pension, our savings. I closed the notebook.
My hands shook so hard the notebook slid to the floor. A small slip of paper fell out. A pawn shop ticket from 2010.
A gold ring with a ruby. It was her grandmother’s ring. The one she told me she’d lost in the garden while weeding. I’d spent hours looking for it, telling her, “Don’t cry, honey, it’s just a thing.” She hadn’t lost it. She’d pawned it to make a Thursday payment.
I sat in that quiet room, surrounded by the things of a woman I thought I knew better than anyone. And I realized I’d been living with a stranger. Who was it?
A lover? A blackmailer? A cult? Or…
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