When he came out twenty minutes later, he had his leather briefcase in his hand. He did not look at me as he walked toward the stairs.
“Richard,” I said, standing up from the sofa. “I’m sorry.”
He stopped on the first step, his hand resting on the polished banister. He turned his head slightly, his profile sharp in the dim hallway light.
“For what?” he asked.
“For asking about the bank,” I said, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. “I know you work hard to take care of us. I didn’t mean to suggest you weren’t doing what was best for our family.”
He turned fully, looking down at me from the step. The condescension in his eyes was cold and absolute, like a schoolmaster accepting an apology from a child who had finally learned her lesson.
“You have always been too sensitive to handle the family finances, Mary,” he said, his voice flat and even. “It’s better if you leave the important decisions to me.”
I stood in the center of the rug, my arms folded across my chest, nodding in agreement while my heart sank.
By nine the next morning, Caroline was sitting at my kitchen table with a yellow legal pad, her car keys clicking against the wood.
“We start with a new bank account at the credit union three towns over,” Caroline said, drawing a heavy circle on the paper. “They don’t send paper statements if you check the right box, and Richard will never think to look at an institution in Clinton.”
I rubbed my gold wedding band, wondering how many of our secrets had already worn away.
“Richard reviews the mail before it even lands on the counter,” I said. “He knows every envelope that comes through that slot.”
“The credit union has paperless options, Mary, and you will use my email address for the login,” Caroline said, tapping her pen against the wood. “I already checked. You just need a fifty-dollar deposit to open it.”
