My husband died ten years ago, and every month for the entire decade since, I transferred five hundred dollars to pay off what I believed were his debts. I never questioned it, because grief makes you do things on autopilot, because trust runs deep in families, because I was too overwhelmed to think clearly about anything beyond surviving another day without Robert. But then the bank called.
“Mrs. Henderson?” The woman’s voice was professional and slightly confused. “This is Catherine Woo from First National Bank.
I’m calling about your late husband’s account, and I need to clarify something with you.”
I was standing in my kitchen in Sacramento, the one with the creaky floorboards and the window that looked out onto the citrus tree Robert had planted twenty years ago. My hand tightened around the phone. “Yes, this is Margaret Henderson,” I said, my voice automatically taking on that careful tone you use when you think you might be in trouble.
“Mrs. Henderson, I’ve been reviewing our records, and I need to tell you something important.” She paused, and I could hear computer keys clicking in the background. “We’ve never had any outstanding loans or debts associated with your husband Robert Henderson’s account.
In fact, all his accounts were closed and fully settled within weeks of his passing in 2015. There’s nothing owed to this institution. There never was.”
The world tilted sideways.
I gripped the edge of the kitchen counter, my knuckles going white. “What?” The word came out as barely a whisper. “You’re not in debt to us, ma’am.
You never were. Is there a particular reason you’re asking about this now?”
My legs wouldn’t hold me. I pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down heavily, the same chair I’d sat in ten years ago when Janet—Robert’s cousin—had come to me right after the funeral, tearful and concerned, with papers in her hands and sympathy in her voice.
“Mrs. Henderson, are you still there?”
“I’ve been making payments,” I said, my voice sounding strange and distant in my own ears. “Every month.
For ten years.”
“Payments to whom?”
The question hung in the air like smoke. Not to the bank. I’d never sent money directly to the bank.
I’d been wiring it to Janet, who said she had connections there, who said she’d make sure everything was handled properly, who said she was helping me. “I need to go,” I managed to say, and hung up before Catherine could ask anything else. I sat in that kitchen for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, staring at the citrus tree outside the window, trying to make sense of what I’d just learned.
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