Chapter 10 - Six Weeks Earlier
Six weeks earlier, I had been in the hospital with my daughter.
Bronchiolitis.
Three nights.
Two terrifying mornings.
Hours spent watching her small chest rise and fall while oxygen numbers glowed on a monitor.
There was no possibility I had signed real estate papers at my mother’s kitchen table.
I had not even visited her house.
Martin emailed a copy.
The signature looked almost perfect.
Better than the first.
My sister stared at it.
“That isn’t mine.”
“I know.”
She looked sick.
“Then who did it?”
We learned the answer the next morning.
Security footage.
My mother’s front-door camera automatically backed up thirty days to a cloud account shared with my sister because she had installed the system.
Fortunately, the relevant date had not yet been erased.
At 2:13 p.m. six weeks earlier, the notary arrived.
At 2:26, another woman entered.
She wore sunglasses.
A long coat.
A scarf.
At first, I did not recognize her.
Then she turned toward the camera.
My aunt.
The same aunt who had defended me at Christmas dinner.
My stomach dropped.
“No.”
My sister paused the video.
“That’s Aunt Carol.”
We watched her leave twenty-two minutes later.
I called her.
She answered on the second ring.
“Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”
It was the day after Christmas.
The cheerfulness in her voice made something inside me snap.
“Were you at Mom’s house six weeks ago?”
Silence.
“What?”
“November thirteenth.”
Another pause.
My sister watched me.
My aunt finally said, “Why are you asking?”
“Because I have video.”
Her breathing changed.
“I can explain.”
Everyone could explain.
That was becoming the family motto.
“Did you sign my name?”
“No.”
The answer came quickly.
Too quickly.
“Then what did you do?”
“She asked me to witness something.”
“What?”
“A signature.”
“Whose?”
Silence.
I closed my eyes.
“My signature?”
“I thought you had already agreed.”
I laughed.
It sounded almost hysterical.
“Why does everyone in this family think that sentence makes things better?”
“She told me you were at the hospital.”
“I was.”
“She said you had signed electronically.”
“Then why did anyone need to witness a signature?”
My aunt said nothing.
Because there was no answer.
“Who signed it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You were there.”
“The paper was already signed.”
“Then what did you witness?”
Another silence.
My anger turned cold.
“You lied on a legal document.”
She began crying.
“Your mother was desperate.”
“My daughter was in the hospital.”
“I know.”
“And while I sat beside her breathing treatment, all of you were using my name.”
“That isn’t fair.”
I almost dropped the phone.
“Not fair?”
“I didn’t know the full situation.”
“You knew enough to know I wasn’t there.”
She started talking faster.
My mother was under pressure.
The bank was threatening action.
The staging business had failed.
There were liens.
Taxes.
Fees.
The house needed to be sold.
Everyone was trying to save what remained.
Everyone except me.
Apparently, my role was simply to provide a signature without being told.
I asked one final question.
“Did you know about Dad’s letter?”
She stopped.
That was my answer.
“How long?”
“Your mother told me after the funeral.”
I looked at my sister.
My aunt continued.
“She said he was trying to punish her.”
“Did you read it?”
“No.”
“Did you ever ask me what I thought?”
“No.”
“Then you didn’t care whether it was punishment or truth.”
“That’s not fair.”
“There’s that word again.”
I ended the call.
My hands were shaking.
My sister sat beside me.
“I’m sorry.”
I looked toward my daughter’s play mat.
She was chewing on the stuffed bunny from beneath my mother’s tree.
The smallest gift.
The one my aunt had bought.
I felt a complicated sadness.
My family loved through objects.
Books.
Bunnies.
Christmas dinners.
Checks tucked into birthday cards.
But when love required honesty, everyone suddenly became unavailable.
Martin called an hour later.
He had contacted the title company.
The December twenty-seventh closing was temporarily frozen.
My mother could not sell the house.
I expected relief.
Instead, I felt dread.
Because Martin also told me the buyer had already transferred a forty-thousand-dollar deposit.
If the sale collapsed, someone would owe that money back.
May you like
My mother did not have it.
She had already spent it.
