At 3:45 on Christmas afternoon, after I had spent two days cooking dinner for my son and daughter-in-law, my doorbell finally rang. It wasn’t them. A courier handed me a manila envelope in Lauren’s handwriting: “We decided to spend Christmas at my mom’s house this year. Last minute change. Hope you understand.” My husband had been gone only nine months. By sunrise the next morning, I found another envelope hidden outside in Richard’s handwriting, and the message inside sent me straight to the desk he had told me not to touch.

That answer made me trust him more.

“He confronted David,” Harris continued. “David acknowledged that the money had been used toward the property and said they intended to replace it.”

“Did they?”

“No.”

I sat back.

For several seconds, neither of us spoke.

My first feeling was anger.

The second surprised me.

Embarrassment.

How had this happened inside my own family without me knowing?

Harris must have seen something on my face.

“Mrs. Ellis, Richard regretted keeping this from you.”

“Then why did he?”

“He thought you would protect David.”

I looked at him.

“What did he say exactly?”

Harris opened a notebook.

“He said, ‘Margaret has spent her whole life holding the family together. I’m afraid she’ll protect our son before she protects herself.'”

I looked down at the forged signature.

It hurt because Richard had been right.

How many excuses had I already made?

David was busy.