Your mother used my card without permission. That wasn’t family—that was theft.
I froze the account. My paycheck is in my own account now.
If you’re angry, be angry at the people who cross boundaries and call it love.
Do not contact me, my work, or my sister. Speak to my attorney.
—Olivia
Heat rose in his chest. He called her.
Voicemail.
His mother rang instead. “Did you fix it? I’m sitting here like a criminal!”
“What did you do?” he demanded. “Why were you in our apartment?”
“I have a key,” she snapped. “She emptied the account to embarrass me.”
Derek looked at the screenshot on the table—Marjorie entering, Olivia’s purse open. A bank alert beneath it: card locked for suspicious activity, ten minutes before the decline.
Olivia hadn’t moved money out of spite. She’d shut down a stolen card.
A sharp knock hit the door. A police officer stood with the apartment manager.
“We received a report from Olivia Hale for unauthorized entry and theft. Are you aware of anyone entering without her consent?”
“It was my mom,” Derek said quietly.
Olivia had already paid to rekey the locks.
The interview was brief. The facts didn’t bend. Yes, Marjorie had a key. No, Olivia hadn’t approved. Yes, the card was taken.
After they left, a text arrived:
Attorney Janine Ross. Do not contact Olivia or her family. All communication goes through my office. Olivia is safe.
Marjorie called again, furious. “You’re choosing her over me?”
Derek looked at the stripped apartment—the missing photo, the empty closet.
“I already chose,” he said. “By never stopping you.”
In the bedroom, an envelope waited: BOUNDARIES I ASKED FOR.
No entering without permission.
No using my money.
No insults.
If your mother crosses a line, you address it.
I asked for three years. You called me dramatic.
Two days later, a temporary protective order arrived. Real. Enforceable.
Derek asked the attorney one question: “What would prove I’m serious?”
The answer: return all keys, attend counseling, submit a written acknowledgment of the theft and his failure to intervene. No contact.
He wrote the statement anyway—not to win Olivia back, but because he finally understood.
The issue wasn’t the bank card.
It was the man who let his mother call his wife an idiot—and expected his wife to apologize.
That evening, Derek drove to his mother’s house and held out his hand.
“Give me the keys.”
This time, he didn’t raise his voice.
He didn’t have to.