My Husband Told Our Daughter to Keep Her Clinic Visits Hidden From Our Bank Account

I slid my driver’s license across the wood.

The clerk typed in my name, checked her screen and went over to a row of gray filing cabinets.

She came back with a thick manila folder.

She laid it flat on the counter and opened the heavy cover.

I looked down at the pale yellow cardstock form sitting on top.

Richard had filled in the boxes in his unmistakable block printing.

He’d put his own name on the first line.