More tellingly, the file was dated a day when I had been visiting my aunt in Vermont, with no access to the company’s physical notary service.

I gave it to Elaine, who stopped me before I used the word forgery in an email.

“Call it a disputed signature until it’s examined.”

She requested the notary journal and original document.

The company secretary could produce only a scan.

That night, I thought about the lunches I had missed, the decisions I had allowed Preston to explain on my behalf, and the way he always referred to my accounting career as something I had done before becoming his wife.

He had not erased my skills.