“House value.”
I stared at him.
“Your pension income.”
My stomach tightened.
“And one savings balance.”
“How did you get that?”
“You gave me your tax records when I helped with the property rebate.”
I felt cold.
“You used my private financial information?”
“It was just to test numbers.”
“With whom?”
“Owen.”
“And then?”
“Owen shared it with the lender.”
I stood.
The baby started fussing against Laura’s chest.
Ben lowered his voice.
“Mom, you’re making this sound criminal.”
“You listed my assets in a financing proposal without telling me.”
“It wasn’t binding.”
“Was my name on it?”
Ben looked toward the floor.
Laura answered.
“Yes.”
I turned back to him.
“In what capacity?”
“Family guarantor.”
The room went silent.
“But nothing becomes official without your signature,” he added.
I stared at him.
“Did the lender think I had already agreed?”
Ben shifted in his chair.
“They believed you were interested.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
He said nothing.
I left before I said something I could not take back.
At home, I opened every account I had.
Checking.
Savings.
Retirement.
Property records.
Nothing had been withdrawn.
No lien appeared against my house.
No loan existed in my name.
For half an hour, relief softened the knot in my chest.
Then my phone chimed.
Calendar reminder.
Property walk-through — Thursday, 10:30 a.m.
Tomorrow.
I stared at the screen.
I had never created that appointment.
Ben had access to my calendar because after my knee surgery he helped keep track of doctor visits.
I opened the event.
There was no address.
Only a phone number.
I called.
“Ridgeway Residential Appraisals.”
I gave the receptionist my name and address.
“Do you have something scheduled at my property?”
Keyboard clicking.
“Yes, Mrs. Walsh. Tomorrow at ten-thirty.”
“Who arranged it?”
“Your son.”
I gripped the counter.
