‘I … I … don’t …’ Mum splutters.
‘So I’ll ask again: where’s my trust money, Mum?’
Her mouth opens and closes like a goldfish. She blinks rapidly, trying to summon up a suitable answer. None is forthcoming. The hunted, haunted look on her face confirms my worst suspicions. My heart is flip-flopping, though I’m careful to keep my expression neutral. My poker face is recharged and back in action. It wouldn’t do to let Mum see the disappointment on my face – again. Mum’s expression hardens as she finally settles on the way she’s going to play this. She’s about to kick off, but not in an alcohol-or drug-induced rage this time. No, this one is provoked by something less tangible, more unadulterated. Guilt.
‘The letter had a bank statement attached to it stating that my trust fund is now down to double digits,’ I get in before she can. ‘I didn’t even know I had a trust fund so when I phoned the bank I asked for more details.’
Mum blanches. ‘You had no right to do that.’
‘It’s my trust fund, Mum, and the bank statement is in my name. That gives me every right. You said my dad was a nobody who walked away when you were pregnant. Yet he cared enough to set up a trust fund for me. A trust fund that used to have a lot of digits before the decimal point.’
But not any more.
‘I’m not having this conversation.’ Mum’s voice hardens to match her expression. ‘And don’t you ever open my post again.’
‘It was my letter, Mum, addressed to me. I just told you that. You’re the one who’s been opening my post all these years, not the other way round.’ It’s like she just doesn’t get it. ‘I’m eighteen in a few weeks, and d’you want to know what my present to myself will be? I’m going to find a lawyer to go through my trust-fund account with a fine-tooth comb. And if … when I have proof that you’ve been taking money meant for me, I’ll make sure you pay – one way or another.’
‘Are you threatening me?’ Mum gives me a hard stare.
I don’t answer. How can I? I’m not sure if it’s a threat or a promise or just hot air created in the heat of the moment, but Mum isn’t the only one who’s pissed. All this time she’s made out that my dad did a runner and didn’t give a toss about me. Liar.
‘I’ve spent years wondering why you didn’t just farm me off to a relative or put me in a children’s home,’ I muse. ‘And now I know the reason: because without me you would’ve had to work for a living. No me, no trust fund. All this time, you’ve been living off my money.’
‘I don’t have to listen to this. Get out of my room.’
‘Mum, I mean it. The moment I turn eighteen, the first thing I’m going to do is check out my so-called trust fund. If you’ve stolen my money, I’m going to the police. I’ll do whatever it takes to get it back and be free of you. In fact, I’m going to write to my dad care of the bank and ask if I can live with him.’
‘Yeah, that’ll happen,’ she scoffs.
‘Even if he says a flat-out no, I still won’t stay here with you. Either way I’m outta here.’
‘You do what you have to do,’ says Mum. ‘And so will I.’
She glares at me, her gaze scornful. For the first time, it doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t even sting. I’m beyond that now. I head back to my room, locking the door behind me. Lying on my bed, the words of the letter from the bank keep dancing before me. Trust fund … account balance … Lots of technical banking jargon that all boils down to one thing – no more money. When I phoned the bank earlier, giving the account number and sort code provided in their statement to me, the first thing I asked was how much had been paid in each month and how much the account had at its peak. They wouldn’t tell me until I answered their security questions, like my mum’s maiden name and my mum’s date of birth. I was thankful Mum had picked security questions that all revolved around her. Once through security, I got shocking answers to my questions.
Mum said my dad walked out on us and never looked back. He looked back enough to pay for my upkeep each month. He looked back enough to never skip a month. Not one. Apart from the regular monthly deposits, every year on my birthday and at Crossmas, more money was added to my account, only to be withdrawn within a couple of weeks. My dad had remembered my birthdays. It was all academic though because my account had been bled dry.
They say you can’t miss what you’ve never had, but I was already missing the financial security that had been snatched away from me – stolen away and spent by my mother.
And, more than that, I missed my dad. A dad I’d never met, never known. I missed the idea of him, as well as the reality. A dad who was supposedly so worthless that, under the father’s name on my birth certificate, Mum had put UNKNOWN. Why had she done that? A way of spiting, spitting at and splitting both of us? Fed up with me plying her with questions about my dad, Mum had thrown the birth certificate at me when I was six or seven. I hadn’t understood what UNKNOWN meant, so Mum had explained it meant unwelcome, unwanted. I’d believed her.
The bank wouldn’t or couldn’t tell me my dad’s name either. The source of the money on the statement was listed as TD Holdings – whatever that meant. I googled the name, but all that came up with was some insurance company. My dad is out there somewhere, and if Mum lied about him not caring, maybe she’d lied about everything else. Maybe he does want to get to know me. Maybe I’m not as unlovable as I’ve been made to believe all my life.
I now have a new mission – to find out more about my dad and make contact with him.
And neither Mum nor the devil himself will stop me now.
Daily Shouter Online
Home. News. Politics. Celebs. Entertainment. Sport. Tech. Health. Science. Money. More.
Prime Minister Mansa Julliard speaks out against latest confirmed residency riots
Liberal Traditionalist Prime Minister Mansa Julliard has condemned yesterday’s riots in the capital. ‘Those arrested have no interest in debate or political discourse,’ she said last night. ‘They merely seek to destabilize this government and our great country, encouraged in their lawlessness by dissident voices such as that of Tobias Durbridge in the main opposition party.’
What started as a peaceful march to the Houses of Parliament quickly descended into a brawl between anti-government activists and the police. One protester told the Daily Shouter, ‘It’s a shame that a peaceful protest against an unjust law can get hijacked in this way.’ Another stated, ‘I don’t understand what’s going on in this country. I’m a sixty-year-old Nought woman, born and bred here. I really thought that we, as a nation, were coming together and making progress. The fact that the Confirmed Residency Bill could become law just shows that racism wasn’t on the way out, it had just gone underground. And now it’s back and roaring. This is my home. I’m not going anywhere.’
eighteen. Troy
* * *
Well, this chews bag! I really have better things to do with my Sunday, but, after our last train-wreck dinner together, Mum has arranged for us to spend the day with Sonny at his home. We’ve been invited for Sunday dinner. According to Mum, Sonny is even going to cook it himself. Big whoop!