The second year: another $33,600.
By the third year, I’d stopped buying myself new clothes.
The fourth year, I’d started shopping at discount grocery stores.
This year—the fifth year—I’d been eating peanut butter sandwiches for lunch to make ends meet.
$143,400.
Not counting the down payment.
Not counting the times I’d covered their utilities when Isabella’s shopping addiction got out of hand.
Not counting the new roof, the landscaping, the furniture that was “essential” for their lifestyle.
I sat back in my chair, looking at the numbers until they blurred.
Maria’s life insurance money. My retirement savings. The college fund we’d started for grandchildren I’d apparently never be allowed to see.
All of it gone.
Poured into a house where I wasn’t welcome for Christmas dinner.
I reached for my phone and scrolled through my contacts until I found the number for my bank.
The automated system offered me options in English and Spanish.
How thoughtful.
How accommodating to people like me.
“Customer service, this is Jennifer. How can I help you today?”
“I need to cancel an automatic transfer,” I said, my voice steadier than it had been in years.
“Certainly, sir. I’ll need your account number and some verification information.”
I rattled off the numbers and listened to her type in the background—professional, efficient, no judgment about why a sixty‑two‑year‑old man was canceling payments to what was probably his son’s mortgage.
“I see the transfer you’re referring to, Mr. Flores. $2,800 monthly to Wells Fargo. Account ending in 7423. How long have you been making this transfer?”
“Five years.”
The words tasted bitter.
“And you want to cancel it effective immediately?”
I looked around my kitchen at the outdated appliances I couldn’t afford to replace, at the walls that needed painting, at the windows that leaked cold air because I’d spent my home improvement money on someone else’s castle.
“Effective immediately,” I confirmed.
“Done. The transfer has been canceled. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”
“No,” I said, surprising myself with how good the word felt. “No, that’s everything.”
I hung up and sat in the sudden quiet of my house.
Outside, December darkness was settling over Spokane, Christmas lights twinkling in windows where families gathered without conditions, without judgment, without the need to hide who they were.
For the first time in five years, next month’s budget would balance.
For the first time since Maria died, I could afford to fix my porch light, buy decent groceries, maybe even take a vacation.
I gathered up the bank statements, the mortgage papers, all the evidence of my generosity.
Then I walked to my fireplace, struck a match, and watched five years of martyrdom turn to ash.
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