I had expected Jordan to deny the applications.
Instead, he seemed more concerned that I had managed to obtain copies.
He kept staring at the folder.
Then he asked how I'd gotten access to what he called his private business.
I reminded him that the accounts carried my name.
He didn't like that answer.
"That doesn't mean you can go digging through everything."
I looked at him.
"If somebody uses my identity, I have every reason to find out what happened."
Pam was still sitting beside him.
She looked as though she wanted somebody to tell her the whole thing had been a mistake.
I wished I could.
But I had already studied enough records to know the truth wasn't going to be simple.
I turned to the transaction sheet.
The payments from Pam were listed down one side.
The charges and withdrawals appeared beside them.
The balances had not fallen the way I would have expected.
At first, I wondered whether the interest alone explained it.
The rates were certainly high.
But once I compared the statements, the pattern became obvious.
Money was still leaving the accounts.
There were hotel expenses.
Restaurant bills.
Electronics purchases.
Cash advances.
And transactions connected to gambling.
I pushed the page toward Jordan.
"Explain these."
He glanced at it.
Then he looked away.
"That doesn't show everything."
"Then tell me what's missing."
He said he'd been having a difficult time.
He said he was trying to recover money he'd already lost.
He said he thought one good run would let him pay off the debt.
I knew what that meant.
He had been gambling.
And when he lost, he'd gambled more.
The charges included activity at casinos.
Not the imaginary casino trips he had described to Pam.
His own gambling.
I looked at my wife.
She had gone very still.
"Jordan," she said, "was any of that story about Gary true?"
He didn't answer.
She asked again.
This time, his shoulders dropped.
"No."
That one word seemed to take the strength out of her.
She covered her mouth.
I watched her eyes fill.
Then I looked back at Jordan.
"How much did you lose?"
He grew defensive.
He said it was his problem.
And I agreed with him on one point.
His gambling would have remained his problem if he had used only his own money and accepted the consequences.
But he'd brought my name into it.
He'd obtained credit under my identity.
And he had taken money from his mother's retirement while making her believe she was protecting her husband.
That made it our problem.
I turned to another page.
One application used a familiar email address.
Jordan's.
Another carried a phone number I had seen him use for years.
And the mailing address was his apartment on Sayles Boulevard.
I pointed out the information.
He stared at the table.
Then I showed him one of the signatures.
It wasn't mine.
I knew that much immediately.
The writing looked familiar, though.
It resembled the signature I'd seen on paperwork for his apartment.
I asked him to look.
He glanced at the page.
"I don't know what you want me to say."
"I want you to explain why your information appears on an account opened with mine."
He struck the table with his hand.
Pam jumped.
"All right. I opened them."
There it was.
An admission I had spent the afternoon trying to establish.
I didn't feel victorious.
I felt tired.
Jordan leaned back and began talking quickly.
He said he had meant to pay everything off.
He said he'd planned to find more work.
He said there was no reason to keep going over his mistakes.
Then he offered an apology.
It came out like something he wanted to finish as quickly as possible.
I asked who he intended to repay.
"You," he said.
I shook my head.
The problem was larger than one person owing another person money.
The credit had been obtained under my name.
The applications contained information he had no permission to use.
The transactions needed to be reviewed.
And the credit-card companies would have to investigate.
He could not make that disappear by promising to get another job.
Jordan stared at me.
"You keep talking like I've committed some terrible crime."
I touched the application.
"I didn't submit this."
He looked away.
Then his anger changed direction.
He started talking about me.
About how I always worked.
How I never seemed to worry.
How I drove an old truck instead of buying something better.
How I spent my days at what he called a small storage operation.
He spoke as though the business was something embarrassing.
Something a man did because he lacked other choices.
I let him talk.
There was no point interrupting.
For eight years, I'd heard little comments from him.
Nothing I considered important enough to start a fight over.
He had complained that I was old-fashioned.
He had joked about the truck.
He had questioned why I kept working so many hours.
Sometimes he acted as though my business was barely worth mentioning.
I never corrected him.
I didn't need Jordan's approval.
I knew what the business had required of me.
I remembered the first storage lot.
Seventy units.
An office roof that let water in.
A gate that could stop working whenever the weather turned cold.
I remembered walking through the place after my first marriage ended, wondering whether I'd made a mistake putting so much of my savings into it.
I had been thirty-seven.
Starting over was frightening.
But that property gave me something to work toward.
When a tenant paid late, I had to figure out how to cover my own bills.
When equipment failed, I had to find the money to repair it.
When the second property became available, I had to decide whether the risk was worth taking.
I made mistakes.
I worked through them.
Eventually, I bought a third lot.
And I kept working.
I didn't replace my truck because it still ran.
I didn't buy an expensive house because I didn't need one.
I didn't spend money to convince strangers I was successful.
Apparently, Jordan had mistaken those choices for poverty.
He continued complaining.
Then he said something that made me look up.
"If you had told us how much money you had, maybe I wouldn't have needed to do any of this."
Pam stopped wiping her eyes.
I looked straight at him.
"What does my money have to do with your decisions?"
He seemed to realize he'd said too much.
He tried to explain that I could have helped more.
That I had been keeping things from the family.
That I acted as though money didn't matter.
Pam stood.
"Are you blaming Gary for what you did?"
Jordan shook his head.
But that was exactly what he was doing.
He believed his circumstances justified taking what belonged to somebody else.
And he believed my failure to volunteer more financial help made me partly responsible.
I had helped him before.
When his car needed repairs after he lost a job, I contributed money.
When he changed apartments, I helped him move.
Twice.
At Christmas, I bought gifts for his children.
I did those things because I cared about the family Pam had brought into my life.
I never expected a medal.
I didn't even expect Jordan to thank me every time.
But I had hoped he understood the difference between kindness and obligation.
Listening to him that night, I realized he didn't.
He saw my help as something he deserved.
And when it wasn't enough, he found another way to get what he wanted.
I closed the folder.
"Pam, I need to speak with you privately."
Jordan laughed.
He accused me of trying to turn his mother against him.
I didn't argue.
He had already done enough damage without my help.
I took the documents into the living room.
Pam followed.
We sat at opposite ends of the sofa.
Neither of us spoke for a while.
I could still hear Jordan moving around in the kitchen.
Then Pam said she didn't know how things had gotten so bad.
I looked at her.
I knew she loved her son.
I knew she had spent most of his life trying to protect him.
But I was beginning to understand that her protection had allowed him to avoid responsibility.
And now both of us were paying for it.
"Pam," I said, "there's something I need you to tell me."
She looked up.
I asked whether she had ever used my personal information to open an account.
Her answer came immediately.
"No."
I believed she was telling the truth.
But I still had questions.
Because Jordan could not have maintained his deception for nearly three years without somebody continuing to believe him.
And the person who had believed him was my wife.
Source: psndaily.xyz
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: My Wife Had Spent Nearly Three Years Protecting a Lie About Me, And I Had to Decide Whether Our Marriage Could Survive
I Was Sixty-Nine When I Learned My Stepson Had Been Using My Name, And My Wife Had Believed His Lies for Years
Part 2 of 15
