My cousin gave my daughter a WORTHLESS check for $1,080 after twelve afternoons of babysitting, and I let Beth go back herself to ask for her money.
We had a $420 washer repair waiting, and she’d already offered part of what she’d earned.
Her dad died when she was nine. By sixteen, she was minding other people’s children for cash.
Beth was nineteen when Denise moved into the house down our road eight months earlier.
My cousin had a tiled porch, a garden she paid somebody to tend, and four cars.
She and Roger had boys aged two, four, and six.
“I need somebody after your classes,” Denise said. Her sister’s wedding was coming, and she had appointments.
They settled on twelve afternoons, finishing at eight thirty, for $1,080.
Beth wrote the hours on the back of a grocery receipt before she even took her coat off.
She fed those boys, washed their hair, and waited beside their beds until they settled.
In the picture Roger sent me, she sat on their orange sofa with the youngest across her lap.
A yellow toy car rested behind her head.
On the last afternoon, she came through our door holding that check flat so it wouldn’t get bent.
She left it beside her breakfast plate the next morning, then took it to the bank.
When she came home, she kept her coat on.
“The account isn’t there,” she said.
She walked back to Denise’s house with the check folded inside her pocket.
“I’m running late,” Denise said. “Try me after the weekend.”
Beth waited four days.
Then my cousin asked whether she’d made a mistake at the bank, because babysitting wasn’t exactly a proper job.
My daughter took the same check back to the same counter and came home with the same answer.
She tried Denise again.
“It’s ONLY A LITTLE MONEY,” my cousin said. “I’ll get around to it.”
Beth cried at our sink that evening. She kept apologizing for the washer, rubbing a thumb over the fold until the paper started to split.
I took it from her, laid it beside my phone, and pulled a chair up to the table. I’d decided who was getting the call, and it wasn’t my cousin.
Roger Picked Up
I called Roger, Denise’s husband. He answered while Beth was still at the sink, running water over a spoon that was already clean.
“Beth hasn’t been paid,” I said. “The check Denise gave her came back. She’s been over there asking.”
There was a scrape at his end, followed by a door closing.
“Denise said something about that,” he said. “She said Beth was having trouble putting it through.”
“Beth went back to the bank. They gave her the same answer.”
“Have you spoken to Denise?”
“Beth has.”
He went quiet long enough for the tap to become the loudest thing in our kitchen. I reached across and turned it off.
Roger said Denise kept the wedding folder and handled the payments. He didn’t offer to replace the check or ask Beth to send him a picture of it.
“Jean’s coming over tomorrow to go through the brunch arrangements,” he said. “Bring your grocery receipt. Denise can put everything together.”
I had already agreed to cook for the family brunch at their house before the wedding. My serving dishes were over there, and the groceries were in my fridge.
“Will Denise be there?”
“Of course.”
“Then I’ll come.”
Beth dried the spoon and put it in the drawer. She closed it with her hip, the way she did when she was trying to keep herself occupied.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said.
“I should have done it sooner.”
She pulled the chair out across from mine. Her coat was still on, though the kitchen was warm from the kettle.
“I thought if I went back without getting upset, she’d just fix it.”
The check lay between us with its split fold facing up. I moved my mug before the ring beneath it could reach the paper.
Beth asked whether I thought Denise would stop speaking to her. I said I didn’t know.
That answer sat badly with me, but I couldn’t offer her something better just to get her out of her coat.
I had spent the first few days telling myself that letting her handle it was part of treating her as grown. She had made the agreement and done the work, and she wanted to collect it herself.
By then she had walked that road carrying the check often enough to wear it through.
I asked whether she wanted to come with me.
“I’ve got class,” she said. “And I don’t want to stand on that porch again.”
She gave me permission to take the receipt and show Denise’s messages. Then she went upstairs, leaving her coat over the chair.
I called Roger back to confirm when Jean would arrive. Before he hung up, he said Denise was putting everyone’s help into the wedding folder so nothing got missed.
What had she entered against Beth’s name?
The Receipt Under The Fruit Bowl
The receipt had spent most of that month under our fruit bowl. Its front listed the groceries I had bought for the brunch; Beth’s work record filled the back.
When Denise first called about the boys, I was standing beside our washer with a saucepan. The machine still held yesterday’s water, and I was scooping it into a bucket.
Beth put the call on speaker because her hands were wet from helping me.
Denise ran through the appointments she had made for Jean’s wedding. There was a fitting across town, another appointment she couldn’t move, and a trip to collect things for the house.
Beth asked when she would be back each afternoon.
“By eight thirty,” Denise said. “Roger will be home if I’m held up.”
Beth asked about the pay before she agreed. I kept dipping the saucepan into the washer so Denise wouldn’t hear me telling her what to say.
They settled the amount. Beth dried her hands, found a pen beside the fruit bowl, and wrote it on the receipt.
After the call, she sent Denise the afternoons and the total in a message. Denise replied that it was right and added instructions about where she kept the boys’ pajamas.
Beth showed me the reply.
“Save that,” I said.
She rolled her eyes a little, but she saved it.
I worked at a laundry counter, checking pockets and matching finished orders to their tickets. At home, my own work shirts were hanging over the bath because I couldn’t get the washer to drain.
The repair quote was on the fridge. Beth had read it without saying anything, then offered some of the babysitting money toward it.
I told her we would talk when she was paid. That left room for her to start counting on helping me, which was another thing I should have handled better.
Before Martin died, he used to do our washing while I worked the weekend shift. Afterward, Beth began carrying the basket without being asked, even when she had to drag it around the corners.
She still picked up whichever end was nearest.
Denise had asked me to cook for the brunch before she hired Beth. Jean and I had grown up sharing beds at family visits, and I had said yes without checking my work schedule.
I took my serving dishes over when Denise moved in. She wanted to see what would fit on the dining table, so they stayed in her cupboard.
For the brunch I bought $68 of groceries. I also swapped away a shift that would have paid $96 so I could prepare the food and get it over there.
Denise said to keep the receipt. We could sort out the shopping later.
I kept it because I needed that grocery money back. Beth kept turning it over to add the time she arrived and left.
Her writing got smaller near the bottom. Beside one afternoon she added that Roger came home late and she stayed until he arrived.
I put the receipt back where Beth could find it.
The Wedding Folder
Denise opened the door with a roll of ribbon hooked over her wrist. She stepped aside before I had finished saying hello.
“The dishes are still in the cupboard,” she said. “I haven’t had a minute to wash them again.”
Jean sat at the dining table with a mug. Roger stood beside the window, sorting the contents of a shopping bag.
The wedding folder lay open in front of Denise’s chair. Cash envelopes sat beside it, each with a corner folded down.
I put my bag on the floor and kept my coat on.
“Where are the boys?” I said.
“Upstairs with their cars,” Roger said.
Denise touched the folder with the ribbon roll.
“We’re trying to finish this before lunch. Did you bring the receipt?”
“Yes. I brought Beth’s check too.”
She let the ribbon drop onto the table.
“Patricia, I told her I’d get to it.”
“She worked the afternoons you agreed on.”
“I know when she was here.”
Jean set her mug down. Denise pulled out the chair beside her and told me to sit, but I stayed at the end of the table.
I had expected excuses about the checkbook or a delay I could ask her to finish fixing. Instead, she began telling Jean about the brunch.
She wanted the food brought over early. There would be things to move around, and she needed me to stay in the kitchen while everyone arrived.
“I can’t do that,” I said.
“You said you could.”
“We need to settle Beth’s pay.”
She turned a page in the folder.
My name was written beside food preparation. Below it was Beth’s name, the childcare amount, and a line drawn through the number.
The same amount appeared farther across the sheet under family help.
I bent closer because I didn’t want to get that wrong.
“What does that mean?”
“It’s how I’m keeping track,” Denise said.
“Why is her pay crossed out?”
“Because it isn’t one of the suppliers.”
“She was working.”
“She’s my cousin’s daughter. Jean needs to know what people have contributed.”
Jean moved her chair back from the table. She didn’t say anything.
I pulled out my phone and opened Denise’s message to Beth. It took a moment because I had saved the picture in the wrong place, and Denise started talking while I searched.
“She had dinner here. Roger drove her home when it rained. The boys were asleep for some of it.”
I found the message and laid the phone beside the folder.
Denise didn’t pick it up.
“That’s the amount you agreed,” I said.
“I haven’t said it isn’t.”
She turned the folder toward herself, but the sheet caught on the ring and wouldn’t move. Her thumbnail worked at the punched hole.
The check had made Beth believe she was being paid. The folder showed Denise had already put that same work somewhere else.
Beth’s work was already counted as their gift.
The Back Of The Receipt
I took the receipt out of my bag and placed it with Beth’s writing facing up.
Denise looked at the grocery total showing through the paper.
“I said we’d settle the shopping,” she said.
“Turn it over.”
She didn’t, so I moved it closer and pointed to the first afternoon.
Beth had written the dates, her arrival times, and when she left. At the bottom was the amount from the message Denise had confirmed.
Roger put down the shopping bag and came to the table. He read without touching the receipt.
“I didn’t know she’d kept all that,” he said.
“She was working out her pay.”
Denise reached for the phone then. She read her own reply and put it down beside my hand.
“I haven’t denied agreeing to it.”
“Then pay her.”
“You’re doing this in front of Jean?”
“You asked me to bring the receipt.”
Jean got up to put her mug in the kitchen. The tap ran briefly, then stopped.
I had rehearsed something on the walk over about Beth being reliable. It would have come out wrong in that room, with her hours under my finger and Denise’s own message on the screen.
Beth didn’t need another reference from me.
I took the check from its envelope. The crease opened farther when I flattened it, so I left it partly folded.
Denise looked toward the kitchen doorway.
“I could have explained this without everyone standing around.”
“Beth gave you time to explain.”
“She came when I was leaving. She kept choosing the worst moment.”
I put my phone back in my bag.
“I won’t be doing the brunch.”
Denise’s hand stopped on the folder.
“You’ve already bought everything.”
“I have.”
“And you know I haven’t booked anyone else.”
“I know.”
She looked at Roger, then at the cupboard where my serving dishes were stored. Jean came back and stood beside her chair.
The groceries at home couldn’t become wages again. My shift had gone to someone who needed it, and I wasn’t going to call and ask for it back.
I would go home with those losses whether Denise paid Beth or not.
“What am I supposed to do with everyone coming?” she said.
“I can’t answer that.”
Jean asked Denise which food she had already ordered. Denise told her to wait.
I opened the cupboard and checked that my dishes were together. The largest had a chipped handle I always turned toward the wall when I served food in it.
They were all there.
I shut the cupboard without taking them out yet. Denise was still looking at the check.
“Are you refusing to help until I pay her?” she said.
“I’m not doing the brunch. Beth still needs her money.”
She pulled the folder closer.
I put the check beside her figures.
The Empty Serving Dishes
Denise talked while she searched through the cash envelopes.
“This was supposed to be a family weekend,” she said. “I have spent days trying to get everything ready, and now I’m having to rearrange food because you won’t give me any time.”
She opened an envelope, looked inside, and shut it.
“Beth could have come to me properly. She didn’t have to get you involved.”
“She came to you.”
“You know what I mean, Patricia.”
I waited at the end of the table. Roger sat down, then got up again to move the shopping bag out of the way.
Denise opened another envelope.
“I used the wrong checkbook. There’s been stuff in drawers since we moved. I don’t know why this has to become something everybody hears about.”
“Then replacing it should have been simple,” Jean said.
Denise turned toward her.
“I’m doing it, aren’t I?”
Jean didn’t answer. She took her chair again and moved the ribbon away from the receipt.
Denise counted out the cash. She lost her place when Roger asked whether she needed him to get anything, and she started again.
“You’ll have to tell her I’ve paid,” she said.
“I will.”
“I want that check back.”
“When I’ve counted this.”
She pushed the cash toward me. I counted it at the table, using Beth’s receipt to keep the notes together.
It was $1,080.
I sent Beth a message saying I had her pay. She replied asking whether it was all there, and I wrote yes.
Denise watched my thumb move over the screen.
“Are we done now?”
I put the cash in my bag and slid the check across to her.
She picked it up by the corner. The fold finally split, leaving a flap hanging from the edge.
“She shouldn’t have carried it around like that,” Denise said.
Roger rubbed a hand over his forehead. Jean looked down at the folder.
I turned the receipt over and pointed to the groceries.
“I’m taking these home. Don’t count on them for the brunch.”
Denise stared at me.
“I’ve just paid her.”
“Yes.”
“Then I don’t understand why you’re still taking everything away.”
“My dishes are in the cupboard.”
She stood between the table and the cupboard for a moment. I waited until she moved.
As I stacked the dishes, she began listing the things she would now have to buy. She asked whether I could at least prepare the food and have Roger collect it.
Then she asked whether Beth could come for the boys while she went shopping.
“Beth won’t be coming,” I said.
“Has she said that, or have you?”
“She doesn’t want to come back.”
Denise put the torn check in the folder and closed it.
“You could have told me before I depended on you.”
I set the largest dish on top of the stack. Its handle fitted under my thumb.
Roger offered to take them to the car, but I had walked.
I carried the empty dishes out myself.
A Work Shirt At The Laundry
Beth was home before I got back. She opened the door while I was shifting the dishes against my hip to reach my key.
“Put them down,” she said.
She took the top dish and carried it to the kitchen. I followed with the rest, knocking my elbow against the doorframe.
The cash stayed in my bag until the dishes were on the counter.
I put Beth’s pay on the table. She counted it, stopped halfway through, and started again.
“She actually gave you all of it.”
“She did.”
“What did she say?”
I told her about the folder. I repeated Denise’s explanation about the checkbook without adding anything to it.
Beth sat with the notes in front of her. She pulled the grocery receipt closer and ran a finger down the hours.
“I thought I’d done something wrong at the bank.”
“You went back and checked.”
“I know. But she kept saying it.”
She separated some money from the rest and pushed it toward me.
“For the washer.”
I put it back with her pay.
“I shouldn’t have left you thinking the repair depended on this.”
She started to object, and I let her finish. She lived there too, she said, and she used the washer, and she wasn’t a child.
“I know,” I said. “Keep your pay. We can talk about the house without this check sitting between us.”
She gathered the money and took it upstairs.
The brunch groceries filled more of our fridge than I had remembered. I moved what I could into the freezer and cooked the rest for us over the next few days.
The $68 stayed spent. So did the $96 shift I had given away.
I called work to ask about extra hours later in the month. There weren’t any available that week, and the repair quote stayed on the fridge.
Jean called about the wedding arrangements. I told her I still wanted to come to her wedding, but I wasn’t taking over the food somewhere else.
She said she would send the arrival time. We left the conversation there.
Denise sent a message asking for the name of the place I bought the groceries. I sent it.
She didn’t ask about Beth.
Roger’s photograph was still on my phone. While looking for the message about Jean’s arrival time, I opened it by mistake.
Kevin sat across Beth’s lap. Toby faced the sofa back, and Colin had the yellow car beneath his hand.
Beth leaned over my shoulder.
“That was the day he wouldn’t put the car down,” she said. “He took it upstairs with him.”
I closed the picture and handed her the laundry basket.
We went to the laundromat with our work clothes and the towels. The washer at home could wait until I had enough from my own wages.
Beth set the basket beside a machine while I sorted the coins. Her receipt was at home under the fruit bowl, with the paid amount written across its back.
She held up my work shirt to check whether I had emptied the pocket.
I took out my name badge, put it in my bag, and fed the machine.
If this felt familiar, send it to someone who has had to ask family to pay for work already done.
For more tales of family drama, check out His Mother Had Already Put Our Baby’s Things In The Hall or read about Amber booking the hot springs three weeks after we lost the baby. You might also like The Folder Beside The Cup.
