The letters looked like mine at a glance, but the final stroke curved upward in a way I had never written.

My mother had taught me to sign my name on birthday cards when I was a child.

I knew what my hand did, even on days when I wrote in a hurry.

“That isn’t my signature,” I said.

Elena didn’t argue.

She gave me a pen and a blank form to record my objection.

My fingers shook as I wrote a formal statement that I had not authorized the submission and did not consent to any lien or mortgage.

“What happens now?”