The Folder My Father Left
“Mom.
Tell me that’s not true.” Bettina laid a certified copy of the deed on the table.
“Handwriting comparison.
Irregular notary stamps.
A power-of-attorney form supposedly signed by Katya while she was on active deployment overseas — and we have command logs placing her out of the country on the recorded date.”
I looked at the signature on the deed.
My name, in my mother’s hand — the loops a little wrong, the pressure uneven, the confident forgery of a woman who had never once imagined she would be asked to defend it.
There is a strange violation in seeing your own name written by someone who used it to rob you.