The call connected quickly, and the bank’s representative was courteous as they verified my identity. « I’m calling about a transaction from two years ago, » I explained, providing the details as best as I could. The representative placed me on hold, leaving me with the soft strains of instrumental music as my only company. Minutes stretched into eternity before they returned, their voice apologetic. « I’m afraid I can’t disclose any information about that transaction without the account holder’s direct consent, » they said. Frustration bubbled beneath my calm facade. « But it’s a joint account, » I countered, but the response was firm, the policy unwavering.
After hanging up, I sat in silence, the weight of my discoveries pressing heavily on my shoulders. My spouse entered the room, their eyes meeting mine. « Is everything okay? » they asked, their voice an echo of concern. My reply was clipped, « I don’t know yet. » I watched their expression shift, a fleeting glimpse of something I couldn’t quite place. It was then that I realized this was more than just mismanagement or oversight.
