Chapter 4 - Sarah’s Account
They waited until the boys were asleep.
Not because Ethan had stopped listening.
Because they had finally learned he was.
At ten fifteen, Sarah sat at the dining table with a mug of coffee she had reheated twice.
Michael sat opposite.
The consoles were still nearby.
They had become witnesses.
Sarah opened her banking app.
She put the screen in front of him.
Balance: $3,842.16.
Michael stared.
“How long?”
“Six months.”
“How?”
“Bookkeeping work.”
“What bookkeeping work?”
“A couple of small businesses.”
“You have another job?”
“Not a job. Freelance.”
“When?”
“After the boys go to bed.”
Michael thought of the nights she had sat at the dining table with her laptop.
He had assumed school emails.
Bills.
Streaming something he didn’t like.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Sarah looked at him.
“Because you would’ve said we should use it for Carter Renovation.”
“I might have.”
“You would have.”
Michael didn’t argue.
That annoyed her more.
He looked at the balance again.
“This pays rent.”
“It could.”
“Then why are we acting like we’re about to be evicted?”
“We’re not.”
“Ethan thinks we are.”
“Because he heard us fighting last week.”
Michael remembered.
The rent payment had been scheduled.
He assumed Brookfield money would arrive before Northline’s draft.
Sarah had asked whether they had enough.
He said yes.
Ethan had been doing homework in the dining room.
Of course he heard.
Michael rubbed his face.
“So we use your account.”
Sarah looked down.
“Not all of it.”
His stomach tightened.
“How much?”
“Two thousand.”
“Why not the rest?”
She hesitated.
Michael saw fear again.
Different this time.
“Sarah.”
“One thousand five hundred is committed.”
“To what?”
Silence.
Michael leaned back.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
“Keep your voice down.”
“To what?”
Sarah looked toward the stairs.
Then at him.
“An apartment.”
Michael stared.
He genuinely did not understand.
“Whose?”
She looked at him.
His chest went hollow.
“Yours.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“You rented an apartment?”
“I put down a holding deposit.”
“For what?”
She almost laughed.
“For an apartment.”
“Why?”
Sarah stared at him.
He heard the stupidity of the question.
Still needed her answer.
“Because I found the Northline email.”
“What email?”
“Payment reminder.”
“When?”
“Two weeks ago.”
Michael felt sick.
“You knew before today.”
“I knew the line existed.”
“You didn’t know how much.”
“No.”
“And you started looking for an apartment.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t ask me.”
She almost smiled.
“Interesting complaint.”
He looked away.
Sarah continued.
“I had spent six months putting money aside because after the first loan, I told myself if you ever tied household money to the company again, I needed choices.”
“I didn’t tie—”
She raised a hand.
He stopped.
“The payment came out of our rent account.”
“Yes.”
“So please do not make me argue terminology tonight.”
Michael sat back.
“What were you going to do?”
“I didn’t know.”
“Take the boys?”
Her eyes flashed.
“I was not planning to disappear with your children.”
“Then what?”
“I wanted somewhere I could go for a week if we had this exact conversation and you started telling me the business would collapse if I didn’t hand over every dollar.”
Michael stared.
He had done that two years earlier.
Not ordered.
Persuaded.
Explained.
Pressed.
Kept talking until Sarah agreed to use savings.
He remembered calling it a family decision.
She apparently remembered the hours before she finally said yes.
Michael looked at her private account.
“You were building an exit fund.”
“I was building an option.”
“What’s the difference?”
“To me?”
She held his eyes.
“A lot.”
They sat in silence.
Then Sarah said:
“The landlord texted again.”
“What does he want?”
“Payment by Monday.”
Today was Wednesday.
Five days.
“We can make that.”
“Yes.”
“We use two thousand from your account. I sell the trailer.”
She said nothing.
“What?”
“If I give you two thousand tonight, what stops your company from pulling money again?”
Michael opened his mouth.
No answer came.
Sarah nodded.
“I need the business disconnected from household checking.”
“I can change the draft account.”
“Not just Northline.”
“Sarah.”
“All of it.”
“You want me to run a company without access to our joint account.”
“Yes.”
“That’s my company’s emergency backup.”
She stared at him.
“No.”
Michael stopped.
She continued.
“That is our kids’ rent money.”
The refrigerator hummed between them.
Michael looked toward the consoles.
For years, he had thought the joint account was family money.
Which meant it was available when the family business needed saving.
Sarah had apparently stopped believing those were the same thing long ago.
She slid her phone back toward herself.
“I’ll transfer two thousand when you unlink it.”
Michael stared.
“And the apartment?”
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
“I have until Friday to decide whether I sign the lease or lose part of the deposit.”
Two days.
May you like
Michael had thought Monday’s rent deadline was the clock he needed to beat.
It wasn’t the only one.
