Marcus stared at the notification, then at me, his thumb hovering uselessly over the screen. “What does this mean? Why is the account restricted?” I shifted Poppy higher on my shoulder, her crying finally softening into hiccups. “It means someone reported suspicious activity,” I said calmly. “Repeated withdrawals that didn’t match the account holder’s pattern. Handbags, salons, champagne lunches, all flagged.” His face went from pale to something closer to panic. “You reported the account? Our account?”

“I reported unauthorized spending on an account with my name on it,” I corrected. “That’s not the same as reporting us. That’s reporting her.” His phone buzzed again, Sandra’s name flashing, then again, and again. He silenced it without reading. For the first time in three years of being told his mother understood money better than I did, Marcus looked genuinely afraid of what that money had been doing. “Nora,” he said slowly, “how long have you been planning this?” I looked at him over the head of our sleeping daughter, and I told him the truth. “Since the day my card was declined buying her granddaughter’s diapers.”