Chapter 6 - The Entitlement Audit
"What audit?" Brooke spat, snatching the page from Greg with furious, jerky movements.
"When I took over the mortgage and the title," I explained calmly, "I hired a forensic accountant to review Mom's bank records for the preceding twenty-four months. I wanted to understand how two elderly people on fixed pensions managed to burn through three hundred thousand dollars of equity in less than two years."
Brooke froze. The paper in her hands rattled as her fingers trembled uncontrollably.
"Do you want me to read the summary, Brooke, or would you like Greg to read it?" I asked. "Because page four lists seventeen separate wire transfers originating from Mom's primary checking account directly into an LLC registered under the name *B. Sterling Designs*. That's your design consultancy, isn't it?"
Greg’s head snapped toward Brooke. "What did he just say?"
"Greg, it was a loan!" Brooke cried out, backing away from the table as if the documents were on fire. "Mom was helping me launch the boutique! We were going to pay it back once the showroom opened!"
"Ninety-four thousand dollars, Greg," I stated, looking straight at her husband. "Ninety-four thousand dollars withdrawn from Mom's retirement account over an eighteen-month period. Right around the same time you two bought your matching luxury SUVs and took that three-week tour of the Amalfi Coast."
Greg’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. "Brooke... you told me your grandmother left you a private trust distribution. You told me that money was yours!"
"It was family money!" Brooke shrieked, breaking down into hysterical sobs. "Mom wanted me to have it! Mom, tell him! Tell them you gave it to me willingly!"
Mom kept her face buried in the quilt, her shoulders heaving with silent, shameful weeping. She had enabled Brooke her entire life. Whenever Brooke wanted private dance lessons, designer clothes, or capital for another failed boutique, Mom had quietly written the checks, concealing Brooke's greed from Dad, from me, and from the rest of the family. Mom had sacrificed her own financial survival to keep her golden daughter smiling—and when the money ran out, Brooke had abandoned her in a house that was two weeks away from being seized by the sheriff.
"Mom didn't give it to you willingly," I said. "She gave it to you because you threatened to cut her off from your life if she didn't support your dreams. And while you were driving around town in an eighty-thousand-dollar leased truck, Mom was eating canned soup and turning the thermostat down to fifty-eight degrees because she couldn't afford heating oil."
"I didn't know!" Brooke screamed, tears ruining her heavy mascara. "She never said anything!"
"Because she was terrified of you!" I raised my voice for the first time, the raw power of my anger shaking the icy air in the room. "And yesterday, you had the unmitigated gall to look at my children—my son and my daughter, who have spent every weekend here mowing this lawn, shoveling this driveway, and bringing Mom groceries—and tell them they belong in a freezing car because your filthy little designer dog was cold?!"
Winston let out a soft whine from his heating pad, startled by my shout.
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"You don't own this house, Brooke," I said, pointing a finger directly at her chest. "You don't own a single splinter of wood in this building. And your days of treating this family like your personal piggy bank and stage prop are officially over."
***
