Mama Ruth’s hospital room felt different now. The sterile smell still lingered, but a fragile hope had entered, pushed in by Harrison’s quiet strength. I sat by her bed, holding her hand, watching her flutter back to consciousness. Harrison stood nearby, a steady presence.
“Naomi, baby,” Mama Ruth whispered, her voice still weak, her eyes finding mine. “Mr. Beaumont.”
She tried to push herself up slightly.
“Take it easy, Mama,” I said, gently easing her back against the pillows.
Harrison stepped closer. “How are you feeling, Mrs. Jenkins?”
Mama Ruth sighed, a long, weary sound. “My heart’s patched up, but… my spirit’s been hurting for a while, Mr. Beaumont.”
She looked at me, then at Harrison, a hesitant, pained expression on her face. Her gaze dropped to her hands.
“There’s something… something I need to tell you both,” she finally managed.
My stomach clenched. I knew it wasn’t just about the parking fee. The way my parents had acted, the constant talk about Mama Ruth’s “generosity” over the years—it all started to make a horrible kind of sense.
“My children,” she continued, her voice barely audible. “Darius and Shanice… they’ve been borrowing from me.”
Harrison nodded, his expression unreadable. “We understand, Mrs. Jenkins. Sometimes family needs help.”
Mama Ruth shook her head slowly. “No, not like that. Not just a little help. It’s been… constant. For years.”
She closed her eyes, a tear escaping the corner.
“They’ve taken… hundreds of thousands, Naomi. From my pension.”
My breath hitched. Hundreds of thousands? Over a $20 parking fee? This was a betrayal on an entirely different scale.
“They said it was for… for their businesses, their charities,” Mama Ruth went on, opening her eyes, her gaze distant. “Darius, he always had big plans for his ‘community foundation.’ Shanice, she needed help with her ‘boutique’ that never seemed to open.”
She paused, gathering her strength.
“They’d come with papers, thick documents. Tell me it was just a formality. ‘Mama, just sign here, it’s for your future, it’s for us to protect your assets.’ I didn’t understand half of what I was signing.”
A cold anger started to simmer inside me. This wasn’t borrowing. This was exploitation.
“Did you ever get any of it back, Mama?” I asked, my voice tight.
Mama Ruth looked at me, a flicker of shame in her eyes. “A little, here and there. Not much. Mostly just… promises.”
Harrison spoke, his voice calm, cutting through my rising fury. “Mrs. Jenkins, do you remember any specific details about these documents? Or the loans?”
“Just that they always sounded so important,” she said, her brow furrowing in concentration. “Legal terms I didn’t know. And they always made me feel guilty if I hesitated. Said I was holding them back, that I didn’t trust my own children.”
I pictured Darius, his booming voice and confident smile, his hand on Mama Ruth’s shoulder as she signed away her future. It was sickening.
“They even got Reggie involved once,” Mama Ruth added softly. “Said he needed a co-signer for something. He looked so uncomfortable. I just wanted to help my boy.”
Reggie. My weakest uncle, easily swayed by Darius. This web ran deeper than I thought.
“Mrs. Jenkins, we’re going to help you,” Harrison assured her, his voice firm. “We’re going to unravel all of this. We will reclaim your dignity and your assets.”
Mama Ruth looked at him, a glimmer of relief replacing some of the pain. “You truly believe that, Mr. Beaumont?”
“I do,” Harrison stated. “You taught me a lesson about kindness, Mrs. Jenkins. Now, it’s time for some justice.”
I squeezed Mama Ruth’s hand, a silent promise. My parents wouldn’t get away with this. Not with Mama Ruth’s pension, not with her peace.
“Where do we even start?” I asked Harrison, my voice still trembling with suppressed rage.
Harrison turned to me. “We start with what we have. Any remaining papers, bank statements, anything that might be tucked away in her home.”
He looked at Mama Ruth. “Do you keep your financial records in a particular place, Mrs. Jenkins?”
Mama Ruth gestured vaguely towards her purse on the bedside table. “Just a few recent statements. The rest… they said they’d handle for me. Keep them safe.”
I grabbed her purse and pulled out a small, folded stack of envelopes. Most were recent bills, but one was a bank statement from last month. As I looked through it, a line item jumped out at me.
“What’s this?” I mumbled, pointing to a recurring transfer. “A transfer of ten thousand dollars, every single month, to… ‘Havenwood Community Foundation’?”
My eyes darted to Harrison. Darius’s “community foundation.” The one he constantly boasted about. My parents weren’t just borrowing. They were systematically siphoning off Mama Ruth’s pension, disguising it as legitimate charitable contributions, probably for tax write-offs for themselves. The hundreds of thousands Mama Ruth spoke of were not just random withdrawals, but a precise, calculated drain. The depth of their deception felt like a physical blow.
+ There are no comments
Add yours