And then there were the lump sums. One for $12,000 marked “educational enrichment, summer camp, Session 1.” Another for $8,500. “Tutoring program, academic year.” There were at least five or six of these spread across different years.

A charge for a private school application fee and assessment that I had absolutely never heard of in my life. Total from the lump sums alone: $45,000.

I called the trust administrator the next morning. Her name was Deborah. She was very professional, very calm. I was neither of those things. I asked her to just read me the numbers because I felt like I had to hear them out loud from another person to believe they were real.

She read them. All of it. The monthly draws. The lump sums. She said it slowly and clearly and I wrote it all down on the back of the birthday card my coworker had given me the day before.

“Total disbursed to Gloria Martinez: $422,400,” she said.

I didn’t say anything for a second.

“Remaining balance: $6,112.”

Six thousand one hundred and twelve dollars. That’s what was left of my mother’s money. My mother worked two jobs most of my early life and I don’t know when she had the time or the foresight to set this up, but she did it. She did it for me. She wanted me taken care of. And out of $428,512, there was $6,112 left, and I had eaten free lunch in middle school and worn shoes from a bin.

I sat in my car in the parking lot of my apartment complex for probably an hour. I don’t even know. I kept thinking about stupid things. I kept thinking about this one winter, I must have been twelve, and I asked Gloria if I could get new sneakers because the sole on my left one was coming apart and she just got this tired look on her face.

Like I’d asked for something outrageous. She said, “We don’t have it right now, baby.” And I felt guilty for asking. I actually felt guilty.

I keep coming back to that. The guilt she made me feel for needing things that were already mine.

I didn’t call Gloria that day. I waited almost a week, honestly because I didn’t trust myself. I needed to not be shaking when I talked to her. I wanted to be calm. I wanted to ask her a simple, clear question and hear what she said.

I called her on a Thursday evening. She picked up on the second ring, same as always, same cheerful voice she uses when she sees my name on the screen.

“Hey, baby, happy belated birthday, I kept meaning to call.”

I told her I’d gotten the trust statement. She went quiet for just a second. Not long. Just enough.