Chapter 2 - The Digital Paper Trail
I read Tara’s message four times before my thumb finally moved across the glass. The kitchen was dead quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the faint rhythm of June’s footsteps overhead as she dressed for church.
*Hi Tara,* I typed, keeping my tone intentionally neutral. *June was glad to help out. Quick question—what link did Scott share? I want to make sure the funds went directly into her student savings account instead of getting misplaced.*
The three little typing dots danced immediately, disappeared, then reappeared.
*Oh, it was a CashApp link on the digital invitation!* Tara replied. *Under the RSVP section, there was an option for ‘On-Site Supervised Kids’ Camp’ for thirty-five dollars per child, or forty if you wanted craft supplies included. Scott said June was running a junior childcare business to save for her middle-school class trip to Washington, D.C. We paid eighty because we tipped five bucks a kid.*
A cold, sickening sensation washed through my stomach, leaving a bitter taste on my tongue.
*On-Site Supervised Kids’ Camp.*
Scott hadn't just taken opportunistic advantage of June while the party was underway. He had pre-planned the entire scheme. He had marketed my twelve-year-old daughter as an official childcare amenity on a luxury baby shower invitation, charged the guests commercial babysitting rates, collected the proceeds into his own digital wallet, and then told June she was simply fulfilling her duty to her unborn sister.
"Mom? Did you wash my navy sweater?" June asked, appearing at the kitchen doorway. She was wearing her Sunday slacks, her hair pulled back into a neat, fresh ponytail, but dark circles shadowed her eyes.
"It's folded in the laundry basket by the dryer, sweetie," I said, forcing a smile that felt brittle. "Are you feeling any better this morning?"
"My back kind of hurts from carrying Mrs. Henderson's toddler," she confessed, rubbing her lower spine. "He kept crying every time I put him down. And Liam spilled punch on my sneakers."
"You did a grown-up's job yesterday, June. You shouldn't have had to do that."
She looked at me cautiously, the inherited anxieties of our divorce flaring in her expression. "Dad said if I complained, it meant I wasn't mature enough to help with the new baby. He said Becca was really proud of me for stepping up so they didn't have to hire a stranger."
"Let me worry about your dad," I said gently. "Grab your breakfast."
While she ate oatmeal, I opened my laptop. I had access to a mutual neighborhood group chat from our old subdivision, where several guests from the shower were active members. I reached out discreetly to two other women who had been tagged in Becca’s shower photos: Kelly Vance and Danielle Ortega.
I sent identical messages, framing it as an inquiry into June’s upcoming school trip fund: *Hey there! June mentioned helping with the kids yesterday. Just reconciling her project funds—did you happen to send payment via Scott's link as well?*
Danielle responded within ten minutes: *Yes! Sent $70 for Lucas and Maya. We thought it was such a clever idea! Beats paying a sitter seventy bucks to stay at home.*
Kelly Vance chimed in shortly after: *Sent $40 on Venmo to Scott’s account directly. He had a QR code printed on the entryway table next to the mimosa bar! Tell June she’s an absolute rockstar. My son didn’t want to leave.*
I grabbed a piece of paper and a pen from the junk drawer, my hand trembling with cold anger.
Tara: $80.
Danielle: $70.
Kelly: $40.
There were three other children June had mentioned. A boy named Liam and two younger sisters whose names she couldn't remember. If their parents had paid the standard rate, Scott had collected between $260 and $300 in cash and digital transfers within a five-hour window.
He had collected roughly three hundred dollars off the sweat of his own twelve-year-old child, fed her leftover cake, and brought her home with bruised knees and ruined clothes, claiming the money "belonged to the family."
I didn't wait. I dialed Scott’s number.
It rang four times before going to voicemail. I redialed immediately. On the second try, he answered, his voice thick with morning irritation.
"Holly, it's Sunday morning. What could possibly be this urgent?"
"You set up a paid daycare at Becca’s shower," I said, keeping my voice low and dangerously steady. "You charged thirty-five to forty dollars a head. You printed QR codes on the drink station. You told the guests the money was going toward June's eighth-grade Washington trip."
Silence stretched across the line for three full beats.
"Who told you that?" he demanded, the defensiveness instantly sharpening his tone.
"The parents you billed," I said. "Where is June’s money, Scott?"
"That is none of your business," he snapped. "What happens in my household during my custody time is between me, my wife, and my daughter. You don't manage my finances."
"You used our daughter for unlicensed child labor, pocketed nearly three hundred dollars from your friends under false pretenses, and sent her home starving!" My voice cracked slightly before I caught myself. "That isn't household business. That's fraud, and it's child exploitation."
Scott let out a short, mocking laugh. "Exploitation? Are you listening to yourself? She babysat some kids in our basement! Teenagers babysit every single day in this country, Holly. Get a grip. The money went toward the shared family budget. We just dropped eight hundred dollars on a crib and a stroller system. June lives under this roof thirty percent of the time. She benefits from this household."
"June’s labor does not pay for your nursery furniture, Scott."
"I am her father," he snarled. "I teach her values. If you want to raise an entitled, selfish brat who thinks the world revolves around her, you do that on your time. In this house, we work as a team. If you ever contact my friends to snoop into our personal affairs again, I will have my attorney file a motion for harassment so fast your head will spin."
"Transfer the money into June’s custodial account by five o'clock today," I said, my knuckles white against the phone. "Every single dollar those parents sent you."
"Not going to happen," Scott said coldly. "And if you keep pushing this, Holly, I’ll tell June exactly how you’re trying to destroy her relationship with her new sister. Let’s see who she believes."
He hung up.
The dial tone buzzed in my ear like an angry wasp. I stood in the middle of my sunny kitchen, looking at the scribbled figures on the notepad.
This wasn't just an isolated lapse in judgment. Scott had always been careless with money—it was one of the reasons our marriage had fractured four years ago. He was chronically behind on his share of June’s medical deductibles, constantly complaining that child support was bleeding him dry while driving a leased German sedan he couldn't afford.
I turned around and saw June standing at the bottom of the stairs, her winter jacket half-zipped, her eyes wide with fear.
"Mom?" she whispered. "Was Dad yelling at you because of me?"
The sight of her small, terrified face broke something open inside me. The years of playing nice, of keeping the peace, of swallowing my objections to his subtle emotional manipulations—it was over.
May you like
"No, June," I said, walking over and kneeling so I was eye-level with her. "He wasn't yelling because of you. He was yelling because he got caught doing something wrong. And I am going to make sure he never does it again."
***
