Jordan held the pen for several seconds before writing anything.
I didn't rush him.
The paper was sitting between us.
The folder remained open.
Pam watched her son with the same worried expression she'd worn all evening.
I could tell she wanted to help.
Maybe she wanted to suggest a name.
Maybe she wanted to remind him of an account.
But she stayed quiet.
That was important.
Jordan needed to provide the information himself.
He began with the three credit-card companies.
He wrote slowly.
Then he listed the address on Sayles Boulevard.
His apartment.
The same address that appeared on the applications I'd obtained.
I watched him write it.
There was something unsettling about seeing that familiar address connected to my financial identity.
I'd known where Jordan lived for years.
I'd helped him move apartments.
I'd carried furniture through narrow doorways.
I'd paid for repairs when his car broke down after he lost a job.
And all that time, I'd assumed our relationship was ordinary.
Complicated sometimes.
But ordinary.
Now I was looking at his address on a list of accounts he had opened without my permission.
He wrote an email address.
Then a telephone number.
I asked whether he'd used any others.
He added another.
I looked at the two numbers.
Both were familiar.
I had seen him use them over the years.
The details matched what I'd found in the records.
That didn't make me feel better.
It only made the situation harder to dismiss.
Jordan pushed the paper toward me.
"That's everything."
I studied it.
Three cards.
An address.
An email.
Two phone numbers.
I looked up.
"What about the other application?"
He frowned.
"The one you said might not have gone through."
He took the paper back.
For a moment, he seemed irritated that I'd remembered.
Then he began speaking.
He had applied for a loan.
Not another credit card.
A personal loan.
Pam leaned forward.
"What loan?"
Jordan rubbed the side of his neck.
"It didn't get approved."
"How much did you apply for?" I asked.
He hesitated.
"Fifteen thousand."
I wrote the figure down.
Fifteen thousand dollars.
I thought about how easily he'd said the amount.
As though the fact that the bank had rejected the application made the attempt less important.
But rejection hadn't changed what he'd done.
He had still submitted somebody else's information.
He had still attempted to obtain money under a name that wasn't his.
I asked whether he'd signed the application using my name.
He nodded.
"Yes."
I asked whether he'd used my Social Security number.
Again, yes.
I asked whether he'd actually submitted the paperwork.
He looked uncomfortable.
"Yes."
I put down my pen.
The application hadn't been approved.
That was fortunate.
But it didn't erase the attempt.
I could have sat there arguing about how serious it was.
Instead, I asked which bank had received it.
Jordan gave me what information he could remember.
I wrote it beside the amount.
Then I asked whether there were any other applications.
He shook his head.
I didn't move on immediately.
I looked at him.
He looked back.
"Jordan, I need you to understand something."
He waited.
"I'm going to verify what you've told me."
His expression tightened.
"Why?"
"Because I've already found information you didn't tell me about."
He looked away.
I touched the paper.
"This has to be complete."
He nodded reluctantly.
I wasn't certain whether I believed him.
Not yet.
Trust wasn't something he could restore in a single evening.
He'd spent years damaging it.
A few minutes of cooperation couldn't change that.
I looked at Pam.
She was staring at the fifteen-thousand-dollar figure.
I wondered what she was thinking.
Perhaps she was calculating how much money she had already withdrawn from her retirement.
Perhaps she was remembering all the times Jordan had assured her the situation was under control.
I knew she was frightened.
But I also knew that fear was part of what had brought us here.
Jordan had learned that if he sounded desperate enough, his mother would try to save him.
Even if saving him meant sacrificing something she needed herself.
I didn't want to see that continue.
I asked him whether there was anything else we needed to know.
He shook his head.
Then he stared at the paper again.
I waited.
He moved the pen between his fingers.
Finally, he said there was something about the payments Pam had been making.
I felt my stomach tighten.
"What about them?"
He looked at his mother.
"Not all of the money went toward the credit cards."
Pam stared at him.
I looked down at the transaction sheet.
For almost three years, she'd been sending him seven hundred dollars each month.
She believed the money was covering debts that threatened our family.
We had already discovered that the debts weren't mine.
Now Jordan was telling us that even his explanation of the payments wasn't accurate.
"Where did it go?" I asked.
He rubbed his forehead.
"Some went toward my rent."
I waited.
"Some went toward the car."
He stopped.
I knew there was more.
"And some went toward what I owed from gambling."
Pam leaned back.
For a moment, she looked unable to speak.
I stared at Jordan.
I had expected the payments to be difficult to trace.
I had expected the balances to be complicated by interest and additional purchases.
But I hadn't expected him to admit so openly that he had been taking money from his mother for expenses she knew nothing about.
I asked how much had actually gone to the card accounts.
He said he didn't know.
I looked at him.
"You handled the payments."
He nodded.
"You had the money."
"Yes."
"And you can't tell us where it went?"
He rubbed his eyes.
"Not exactly."
I turned the transaction sheet toward him.
The payments were listed.
The purchases were listed.
The transfers and withdrawals were there too.
Some activity remained unclear.
But the records gave us somewhere to begin.
I told him he'd have to account for the money.
He said he'd try.
I corrected him.
He needed to find out.
Not guess.
Not estimate whatever sounded reasonable.
We needed actual amounts.
Pam had used her savings to help him.
She deserved to know what had happened to every dollar.
Jordan leaned forward.
"I can pay her back."
Pam didn't answer.
"I'll find more work. I'll sell the car if I have to."
I watched her face.
Once, I thought those words would have comforted her.
They sounded like responsibility.
Like the beginning of a plan.
But after everything we'd heard, promises had lost much of their value.
Pam looked at her son.
"I don't care about your car."
He went quiet.
She wiped her cheeks.
"I want to know when you're going to stop lying to me."
Jordan stared at her.
Her voice broke.
"I've been trying to help you because I thought you were helping Gary."
He lowered his eyes.
"Instead, you've been taking my money and making me afraid of my own husband."
Jordan covered his face.
"Mom, I'm sorry."
She shook her head.
"I know you're sorry right now."
He looked up.
"But I need more than that."
I sat quietly.
Pam had been defending him for years.
I had watched her explain away his irresponsibility.
I'd watched her make allowances when he lost jobs.
I'd watched her excuse his impatience and his lack of gratitude.
I understood why she did it.
He was her son.
But a mother could love her child without paying for every mistake he made.
And a grown man could accept help without pretending he was entitled to it.
I looked at Jordan.
His face was pale.
He seemed frightened.
For a moment, I wanted to believe he was finally facing what he'd done.
Then I remembered the applications.
The cards.
The loan.
The money from Pam's retirement.
The invented accusations about my gambling.
Remorse mattered.
But it wasn't a substitute for accountability.
I asked him whether he understood why his mother couldn't continue giving him money.
He nodded.
"Yes."
"Do you understand that promising to repay her doesn't settle what happened with my identity?"
He looked at the folder.
"Yes."
I hoped he meant it.
Pam folded her hands in her lap.
She looked exhausted.
I knew she would probably spend the night thinking about everything she'd heard.
I would too.
But we weren't finished.
We still needed a complete account history.
We still needed to know what Jordan had applied for.
And we still needed to determine which payments had gone toward debts and which had gone somewhere else.
I reached for another sheet of paper.
I began writing down the documents he needed to gather.
Statements.
Applications.
Payment records.
Account information.
Anything connected to the loans or cards.
Jordan watched me.
I could tell he was beginning to understand that this conversation would not end with an apology and a promise.
For the first time, somebody was asking him to prove what he said.
And I wasn't going to apologize for doing it.
Source: psndaily.xyz
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: When My Stepson Realized an Apology Would Not Erase the Fraud, He Begged Me to Keep His Actions From the Authorities
I Was Sixty-Nine When I Learned My Stepson Had Been Using My Name, And My Wife Had Believed His Lies for Years
Part 6 of 15
