Clinton struck his hand against the post again.
“This whole thing is completely absurd!”
Clara stepped onto the porch behind me, folding her arms.
“What is absurd is coming to my private property and screaming like a madman,” Clara scolded him sharply.
Clinton ignored her and focused on me.
“Margaret, you gave us that money voluntarily four years ago, so do not stand there trying to threaten us!”
“I have not threatened anyone, Clinton,” I said softly. “I simply stopped paying for your life.”
That sentence seemed to anger him more than any insult could have.
Stephanie began crying again.
“Clinton told me that only a small portion of your money would be used to expand the lower floor for your room, Mom!”
“Only a small portion?” I repeated.
He lowered his head and refused to meet my eyes.
When I sold my house four years earlier, I had transferred two hundred and fifty thousand dollars into their account.
The tiny room they gave me obviously had not cost anywhere near that amount.
Suddenly, every luxury they had acquired over the last few years made terrible sense.
The new SUV.
The designer furniture.
Expensive vacations.
Steakhouse dinners.
Maxed-out credit cards.
“How much money did you actually spend on that small room expansion?” I asked.
Stephanie stared at her shoes.
“How much, Stephanie?”
“Around forty thousand dollars,” she whispered.
Cold washed over me.
“And what happened to the remaining two hundred and ten thousand dollars?”
Clinton stepped forward defensively.
“It was invested properly into our family’s future, Margaret! Into our living standards, our home value, and critical career opportunities!”
A bitter laugh escaped me.
Nothing was funny.
