I opened the black folder to the first page and turned it toward David.
His eyes dropped to the number at the bottom.
For the first time that afternoon, the confidence disappeared from his face.
Victoria leaned forward, still gripping her empty containers.
“What exactly are we looking at?”
“A record,” I said.
“Since everyone suddenly cares about who supports whom, I thought we should use actual numbers.”
The first page contained the total cost of one year of Saturday meals: $8,947.36.
I had separated everything into categories.
Meat.
Produce.
Drinks.
Baking supplies.
Disposable pans.
Charcoal.
Spices.
Snacks for the children.
Extra containers Victoria had asked me to buy after repeatedly taking mine home and forgetting to return them.
There were receipts behind the summary page, organized by month.
David stared at the figure.
“You kept receipts for dinner?”
“I kept receipts for our household.
Dinner was just the category you noticed least.”
Victoria gave a dismissive wave.
“That number cannot possibly be right.”
I pulled out twelve monthly summaries and arranged them across the coffee table.
“It averages a little under seven hundred and fifty dollars a month.
Some months were higher because of birthdays, holidays, or special requests.”
Ryan glanced at his children.
He seemed to remember, all at once, the birthday cakes, school supplies, and gift bags that had appeared without anyone asking who purchased them.
Sarah picked up one of the summaries.
“You spent three hundred and twelve dollars the weekend of Emma’s birthday?”
“The brisket, sides, cake, decorations, drinks, and gifts were all included.”
Sarah’s face changed.
“Victoria told us she was helping pay for that party.”
Victoria turned sharply toward her.
“I helped organize it.”
“You chose the cake flavor,” I said.
“I ordered and paid for everything.”
Victoria placed the containers on the floor as though they had suddenly become too heavy.
David reached for the folder.
I put my hand over it before he could close it.
“We are not finished.”
His jaw tightened.
“This does not need to become a performance.”
“You announced that you were tired of supporting me.
Your mother endorsed the idea.
Now your family is standing in my living room demanding the meal I normally finance.
The performance started before I opened the folder.”
The children had moved toward the far end of the room.
I kept my voice steady.
They did not need shouting.
The adults had created enough ugliness without adding noise.
I turned to the second section.
It showed David’s contributions to our joint account for the previous twelve months.
Two hundred and fifty dollars each month.
