The first envelope was a lease notice. Three years earlier I had co-signed Natalie’s apartment, and that morning I had withdrawn my signature in writing. The landlord, a kind man named Mr. Haddad, had agreed to give them thirty days. The second envelope held a printout of every payment I had made for her since graduation: rent, electric, phone, car insurance, and the car itself, whose title still carried my name. It added up to more than ninety thousand dollars.

Trevor stammered that it was all a misunderstanding. I told him I had understood perfectly when I called the venue to ask about the date. The manager mentioned the guest list: forty people, including Margaret’s hairdresser and three of Trevor’s golf friends. Then I learned Margaret had told Natalie that a cleaning woman would embarrass the family. Natalie finally looked up and whispered that it had seemed easier to agree. She confessed that Trevor had lost his job eight months earlier, and the money I sent had been paying for his lifestyle too.

Margaret stood and announced that they would not be lectured by a maid. She demanded the car keys. I told her the car was mine, and I had already sold it that morning to a neighbor’s son. Trevor followed his mother out the door without glancing back at his wife. Natalie stayed at the table, shaking.

She cried for a long time. I made tea, the way I had since she was small. I told her I would always be her mother, but I would no longer be her bank. I offered one thing: a room in my house for ninety days, if she worked and saved. She nodded. A year later she held a small ceremony in my backyard, just us and the neighbors. She paid for the cake herself, and I wore my best dress, which finally fit.