My son unfolded the paper and laid it on the counter. It was a printed spreadsheet, titled “Household Ledger,” with columns of dates, dishes, and prices. Toast, four dollars. Spaghetti, eleven. A bowl of soup, seven. At the bottom, a running total read eight hundred and sixty dollars, with a handwritten note: “Due before next meal.”

His girlfriend, Kendra, lunged for it, but I got there first. “Mom, there is more,” my son said quietly, his voice shaking. “Look at the second page.” I turned it over, and my heart dropped. It was a lease agreement, and the name on the tenant line was only his. Beneath it sat a bank transfer, every month, to an account that was not his own.