He didn’t know his debit card was a useless piece of plastic that would be declined at every gas station between the airport and our front door.

When he finally pulled into the driveway, I was sitting on the porch. I had my coffee in one hand and the court summons in the other. He stepped out of the car, looking tan and relaxed, and started to walk toward the door.

He stopped when he saw the envelope in my hand.

“What is that?” he asked.

I didn’t stand up. I just looked at him.

“It’s a welcome home gift from the credit union,” I said.

He tried to laugh, but the sound died in his throat when he saw the look on my face. He looked at the house, then at his phone, then back at me.

“You can’t do this,” he said.

“I already did,” I told him.

I handed him the envelope. It had the documentation of every single transaction, the forged signature, and the notice of the pending criminal referral.

“Rest is cheaper without you here, Trent,” I said.

I stood up, walked inside, and locked the door behind me. I didn’t look back. I didn’t care where he went. I only cared that for the first time in twenty-two years, the only balance I had to worry about was my own.