Chapter 6 - THE GUARANTEE MY MOTHER WITNESSED
Before watching Grandma’s message, Lydia wanted one thing settled.
My signature.
A forensic document examiner compared the loan guarantee to known samples.
The conclusion was simple.
The signature was traced.
Not imitated.
Traced.
Someone had taken an authentic signature from another document and reproduced it.
The lender also recovered electronic records.
The application had been submitted from my parents’ home internet connection at 11:48 p.m.
Mom’s witness credential had been used.
Then something worse appeared.
A scanned copy of my driver’s license.
I had lost that license three years earlier.
At least, I thought I had.
Mom told me I probably dropped it at a grocery store.
Apparently it never left the house.
My mother had kept it.
That evening, she came to my apartment.
I didn’t tell her the address.
Mason had.
I was furious until I saw her.
She was carrying a cardboard box.
Her makeup was gone.
Her hair looked unwashed.
For the first time in years, she looked tired instead of polished.
“I’m not staying,” she said.
“Good.”
She flinched.
Then handed me the box.
Inside were documents.
Trust notices.
Bank statements.
Letters addressed to me.
Some opened.
Some not.
“You kept these?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She sat down.
“Your father said if you knew about the trust, you’d leave.”
I stared at her.
“I left because you threw me out.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Tears filled her eyes.
“Not then.”
I pulled out one letter.
From Grandma.
Dated six years earlier.
For Briar.
Unopened.
I looked at Mom.
“Why didn’t I get this?”
“Margaret was trying to turn you against us.”
“How?”
“She thought we depended on you too much.”
“She was right.”
Mom looked down.
Then I asked:
“Did you witness my forged signature?”
Her breathing changed.
“Yes.”
The word nearly ended whatever sympathy I still had.
“Why?”
“Your father said the loan would save the house.”
“It funded his failed investment.”
“I didn’t know.”
“You knew I didn’t sign.”
“Yes.”
“Did you keep my license?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“At what point were you planning to tell me?”
“I wasn’t.”
At least that was honest.
Then Mom whispered:
“There’s something else your father doesn’t know I kept.”
She removed an envelope from the bottom of the box.
Grandma’s handwriting.
Across the front:
FOR BRIAR — IF THEY EVER MAKE HER FEEL GUILTY FOR LEAVING.
My throat tightened.
Mom looked at me.
May you like
“I never opened that one.”
For once, I believed her.
