My daughter Lila lives with us but pays for her own way. My stepson Jonah was laid off from his job. Last week, we went to the mall. Lila paid for herself and even bought me a gift. Jonah accused her of showing off. At night, she woke up, went downstairs, and saw him rifling through her purse.
She didn’t say anything right away. She stood quietly at the bottom of the stairs, watching Jonah pull out her wallet and open it. He stared at the cash, his hand hovering, trembling. Then, as if feeling her eyes on him, he turned and saw her.
They locked eyes for a long moment. No words. Just shame and disappointment hanging in the air like smoke.
Lila backed up slowly and went back upstairs. She didn’t say a word to me or to him the next morning. But I could tell something had changed. She moved quieter. Ate less. Smiled only when she had to.
Jonah, on the other hand, was unusually cheerful. He offered to help with dishes, ran to the store without being asked, and even asked if I wanted to watch an old movie together. It felt off. Like he was trying too hard.
I didn’t connect the dots. Not then.
It was two days later when Lila came home early from work. Her face was pale. She handed me an envelope and said, “Can you hold this for me? I don’t want to keep it in my room.” Inside was a small stack of crisp bills. I asked her what it was for, and she said quietly, “It’s just my rent and groceries for the month. I don’t trust leaving it around.”
I asked, “Did something happen?”
She looked at me, eyes calm but tired. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
That’s when I started worrying.
I waited until Jonah came home. He had two grocery bags and a smug look on his face. He put them down and said, “Got stuff for dinner. Thought I’d cook.”
He never cooked.
I followed him into the kitchen and asked directly, “Did you go through Lila’s purse the other night?”
He froze.