One evening, while my dad and I were casually discussing finances, he unexpectedly asked, "Is your allowance sufficient?" The sincerity in his voice caught me off guard since I had no memory of ever receiving an allowance. Suddenly, a rush of bewilderment and curiosity flooded my mind, as if I had stumbled onto a hidden family secret.
Had he been giving someone else money all this time?
The next morning, I tore my room apart searching for clues about the mysterious allowance. I riffled through old birthday cards, dug under stacks of books, and even felt around the edges of my walls, hoping for a hidden compartment. It was an exercise in futility; nothing pointed to an allowance. My frustration grew as I realized I would have to dig deeper to solve this puzzle.
After school, curiosity got the best of me. I approached my dad cautiously, worried about what his response would be. "Are you sure you've been giving me an allowance?" I asked. He seemed puzzled, insisting the money was sent to my bank account. Each word felt like another layer of confusion, and driven by the need to understand, I hurriedly decided to visit the bank for answers.
Standing at the bank, my heart pounded as I handed over my details to the teller. When he informed me that my account had minimal activity over the years, my heart sank. There were no traces of the money my dad had supposedly deposited. A gnawing question stuck with me as I left: where had all that money gone if it never reached my account?