First thing tomorrow, I would go back to the bank and request copies of all transaction records. I needed documentation, proof of exactly what had been taken and when. Then I would consult a lawyer. I didn’t know any lawyers personally, but Margaret’s son was an attorney in Cleveland.
She’d give me his number and I would find out exactly what my legal options were. Jennifer had made a choice. She’d chosen to betray me, to steal from me, to treat me not as her mother, but as an easy mark. Now I would make my choice. I would fight back. Tuesday morning, I was at the bank when it opened. Brittany the young teller looked surprised to see me back so soon.
I asked to speak with a manager and within minutes I was sitting across from Mr. Harrison, a balding man in his 50s who’d handled my account for years. Mrs. Patterson, he said gently, clearly uncomfortable. Brittany mentioned what happened. I’m very sorry, but the withdrawal was completely legitimate.
Your daughter had full authorization. I understand that, I interrupted, my voice firmer than I felt. I’m not disputing the legality of her access. I need copies of all transaction records for the past 6 months, every withdrawal, every deposit, everything. He blinked, surprised by my directness. Of course.
May I ask why you need personal reasons? I said, ‘How soon can you have them ready?’ Within an hour, I walked out of the bank with a thick envelope of statements. I sat in my car and reviewed them carefully, and that’s when I saw it. The pattern I hadn’t noticed before. The $47,000 hadn’t disappeared all at once.
