The loan against the house had my name on it, but the letters leaned left, the way Julian’s did when he signed birthday cards.

Maya cooed and kicked the bouncer.

I reached down and touched her foot.

The forged signature sat under my finger.

It was Julian’s handwriting.

I turned the forged document over twice and laid it flat on the changing table.

Four photographs, one for each corner and one close up on the signature line, where my name sat in my husband’s handwriting.

The portfolio under Maya’s crib mattress was thick enough now to lift the pad an inch.