Simone stared at the page, and the color drained from her face. “Where did you get this?” she whispered. It was a credit card statement, mailed to my house that very morning. The card was in Trevor’s name, but I had co-signed it four years ago when he started his job. At the top, in bold, sat a balance of $6,240. Beneath it ran three charges from the week before: the Surface Pro, the headphones, and the iPad.

Trevor took the page from her fingers and read it twice. “Simone,” he said quietly, “you told me you paid for those with your savings.” Simone’s mouth opened and closed. Then, behind her, the car door swung open, and my grandson called out, “Grandma, why is Mommy crying?”