“You’re counting food you ate too,” Liam said quickly.
“I removed my estimated share.
The original grocery total was higher.”
She turned the page.
“Electricity, gas, internet, and household services I paid directly: eleven thousand eight hundred six dollars and forty cents.”
Liam shook his head.
“Those are normal household expenses.”
“Yes.
Expenses paid by the woman you claim to support.”
The children were no longer asking about lunch.
Toby’s wife guided them toward the living room and quietly turned on the television.
When she returned, she remained near the doorway instead of sitting down.
Penelope continued.
“Repairs and replacement appliances: seventeen thousand nine hundred twenty-two dollars and eighteen cents.”
She placed three invoices on the table.
“The water heater.
The damaged kitchen floor.
The washing machine.”
“I handled the contractors,” Liam said.
“You called them.
I paid them.”
“That still benefited both of you,” Beatrice snapped.
Penelope nodded.
“It did.
I’m not complaining that I contributed to my home.
I’m correcting the lie that I contributed nothing.”
The distinction landed harder than shouting would have.
Liam shoved his hands into his pockets.
“You’re twisting this.
I never said you contributed nothing.”
Penelope looked at him steadily.
“You said you were tired of supporting me.
In front of your mother, you just repeated it.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is exactly the same thing.”
She removed another section from the folder.
This one was thicker.
“Beatrice’s medications, pharmacy charges, medical copays, and transportation to appointments: thirteen thousand four hundred eighty-seven dollars and ninety cents.”
For the first time, Beatrice appeared uncertain.
“I never asked you to pay all of that.”
“No.
Liam asked me.
Sometimes Toby did.
Sometimes the pharmacy called because my card was the one on file.”
Penelope placed copies of the receipts in a neat row.
The pharmacy logo appeared again and again beside dates Beatrice could not dismiss.
“I thought Liam paid those,” Beatrice said.
Penelope turned toward her husband.
“So did you tell her that you paid them?”
Liam’s expression changed—not enough to become guilt, but enough to reveal fear.
“I didn’t discuss every transaction with my mother.”
Beatrice stared at him.
“You said you were handling my medicine.”
“I was handling it.
Penelope and I are married.
Our money is—”
