Megan called on a Tuesday afternoon.
Her voice was unusually quiet.
“Can we meet without Ryan?”
I was watering a fern that had belonged to my mother.
I set the watering can down.
“Why?”
“I need to talk to you about something.”
I suggested a café near the public library.
I chose a table beside the window where we could hear each other without being alone.
Megan arrived twenty minutes early.
She had not ordered anything.
There were dark circles under her eyes.
“Thank you for coming,” she said.
I took off my coat.
“What's happening?”
She folded a paper napkin until it became a narrow strip.
“The bank has been calling about our home equity line.”
I waited.
“Ryan thought we'd have more time.”
“More time for what?”
She looked past me toward the street.
“He put money into a project with a man from work.”
“Grant Mercer?”
Her head snapped back.
“How do you know that name?”
“I've been reviewing some financial records.”
She touched the napkin again.
“Ryan said it was a short-term investment. They were going to renovate warehouse space and lease it.”
“Did you agree to it?”
“I agreed to the home equity line for repairs. Not to this.”
Her answer was immediate.
Then she lowered her voice.
“I signed some papers without reading them carefully. I was furious when I found out.”
I had spent months making Megan the villain of every canceled dinner.
Sitting across from her, I saw a frightened woman who had also trusted somebody with paperwork.
That did not excuse the Christmas card.
It complicated the picture.
“How much are you asking for?” I said.
She swallowed.
“Twenty thousand would stop the most urgent notices.”
I let the silence sit between us.
“Ryan doesn't know I'm here.”
“Does he know about the overdue payments?”
“He knows. He keeps saying the investor will come through.”
“Have you spoken to a housing counselor or attorney?”
“No.”
“Then that's where you need to begin.”
She looked wounded.
“I thought you might help us.”
“I might help you find the right person to talk to,” I said.
“But I'm not giving you twenty thousand dollars.”
Tears formed in her eyes.
“You always helped before.”
“Yes.”
I did not apologize for that answer.
Megan pushed the napkin aside.
“We handled Christmas terribly.”
“You did.”
“My mother had invited everyone. Ryan was stressed. We kept putting off telling you.”
“Then you sent a courier.”
She stared at the table.
“I was ashamed to call.”
I thought about the ham wrapped in plastic and the candles burned halfway down.
“I would rather have heard the truth from you before noon,” I said.
She wiped her cheek.
“That's fair.”
We talked for nearly an hour.
She told me she had started checking account statements herself.
She had discovered payments to a firm whose name meant nothing to her.
She did not know about the forged signatures on my documents.
At least, she said she did not.
I did not accuse her.
I asked her to preserve the statements and get independent advice.
Before leaving, she said something that kept me awake that night.
“Ryan believes his father promised to help him finish this deal.”
“Daniel told me he wouldn't cosign.”
Megan closed her eyes.
“That's not what Ryan told me.”
I walked to my car feeling the cold through my gloves.
Two versions of Daniel's last year now existed.
One in which he quietly withdrew support.
Another in which he promised money Ryan had come to expect.
I knew which one sounded more like my husband.
But the question was not what sounded right.
It was what the documents could show.
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: Daniel’s Letters Revealed The Argument He Never Wanted Me To Carry
The Christmas Dinner I Prepared For Three Ended With A Courier At My Door
Part 7 of 16
