Chapter 3 - The Price of Admission
By lunchtime, the pieces of Scott’s little enterprise were coming into sharp focus.
Tara wasn’t the only parent who was disturbed. Once she realized what had happened, she reached out to two other mothers who had attended the shower—Chloe Henderson and Rachel Diaz. Within an hour, my inbox was filled with receipts.
Chloe had sent Scott $75 via Zelle. Rachel had sent $90 because she had three kids under six. In total, Scott had collected exactly $415 from the attending parents.
None of them had been informed that June was working alone. Several of the mothers had specifically asked Scott if there would be an adult downstairs supervising the younger children, and Scott had smoothly assured them, *“Yes, Becca’s sister will be popping in and out to oversee everything.”*
June had already confirmed to me that no adult had set foot in the basement for five hours, except for Scott coming down once to tell them to keep the noise down because someone was giving a toast.
At 1:15 PM, my phone rang. The caller ID flashed Scott’s name.
I didn't answer right away. I tapped the record button on my secondary work device, put the phone on speaker, and swiped to accept.
“Holly,” Scott began, his tone sharp and irritated. “What the hell are you doing texting my friends?”
“I haven't texted any of your friends, Scott,” I replied evenly. “Tara Mills reached out to me.”
“Well, she just called Becca screaming about childcare money!” Scott spat. “Becca is seven months pregnant, Holly! She doesn’t need this kind of stress! You are turning a completely normal family gathering into a three-ring circus!”
“Did you collect over four hundred dollars from guests under the pretense of paying June for babysitting?”
There was a pregnant silence on the other end of the line. For five full seconds, all I could hear was Scott’s heavy breathing.
“That money was an event fee,” Scott said, his voice dropping into that slick, dismissive cadence he always used when he was cornered. “It covered the snacks, the craft supplies, the juice boxes, and the wear and tear on our basement. June got to be part of the day. She’s twelve. Twelve-year-olds don’t need four hundred dollars.”
“You didn’t buy craft supplies, Scott. June brought her own colored pencils from my house. And wear and tear on your basement? Are you listening to yourself?”
“Listen to me, Holly,” he snarled, dropping the polite facade entirely. “I have custody every other weekend. What I do in my house during my parenting time is my business. If I ask my daughter to watch the kids so the adults can celebrate her future sibling, that is called building character. You’ve spoiled her, and I’m teaching her responsibility.”
“You told the parents the money was for June’s summer camp fund.”
Silence again.
“Where did you hear that?” Scott demanded, his voice cracking slightly.
“I have the receipts, Scott. I have the event flyer. And I have messages from three different parents stating they paid you directly for June’s labor. You used our daughter as an attraction to run a private daycare so you could pocket four hundred bucks.”
“It’s my house!” he roared. “Don’t you dare lecture me about parenting! If you try to make an issue out of this, I will take you back to court for parental alienation! You're poisoning June against me and Becca!”
“I won't have to take you to court, Scott,” I said softly. “You’ve already done all the heavy lifting for me.”
May you like
I hung up.
My hands were shaking, but not from fear. It was the icy, unyielding clarity of a mother who had finally seen through the fog.
