PART5

He looked as if he wanted to shake an answer out of me.

“The savings account we were supposed to use for retirement!”

I slowly stood.

“Alden, that account was never in my name.”

“Exactly!”

“Then why are you asking me where the money went?”

He stopped.

For the first time since he’d come home, he looked genuinely worried.

He glanced at his phone again.

Brenda was still talking.

I could hear her voice through the speaker.

“Ask her about the transfer! Ask her!”

Alden looked at me.

“What transfer?”

I shook my head.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He turned away and ended the call.

Then he stared at me for a long moment.

“Something’s wrong.”

I folded my arms.

“Then maybe you should call the bank.”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he walked back toward his truck.

I watched him get inside and shut the door.

A minute later, his phone rang again.

This time, he didn’t answer.

He just sat there with both hands gripping the steering wheel.

And I knew something had happened.

Something much bigger than my pension.

Something Alden had been keeping from me.

That evening, after he finally came inside, he placed a thick envelope on the kitchen table.

His face was pale.

“Joanne,” he said, “I need you to tell me the truth.”

I looked at the envelope.

“What truth?”

He swallowed.

“Did you know about the loan?”

I felt my stomach tighten.

“What loan?”

He opened the envelope and slid a document across the table.

At the top was a bank’s name.

Below it was a balance that made my breath catch.

$186,400.

I read the amount twice.

Then I looked at the signature at the bottom.

It was supposed to be mine.

But I had never signed that document.

Alden pulled out a chair and sat down.

For the first time in forty-five years, he looked afraid of what I might say.

“Joanne,” he whispered, “I think we’re in trouble.”

I looked at the signature again.

Then I looked at my husband.

“No, Alden.”

I pushed the paper back toward him.

“I think you are.”

And that was when he finally told me whose name was on the loan application as the guarantor.

Mine.

For several seconds, neither of us spoke.

The kitchen clock ticked above the refrigerator.

Outside, one of Miriam’s goats bleated near the fence.

And in front of me sat a document claiming I had guaranteed a loan for $186,400.

I picked it up again.

My name was printed clearly.

JOANNE KITTLE.

The address was my farmhouse.

The property description included all forty acres my daddy had left me.

And at the bottom was a signature that looked almost like mine.

Almost.

I had spent thirty-one years handling other people’s mail. I knew the difference between an original document and a photocopy. I knew how to examine handwriting, dates, addresses, and official stamps.

I also knew something else.

I had never signed that paper.

“Alden,” I said carefully, “when was this loan taken out?”

He rubbed his forehead.

“About eighteen months ago.”

“Eighteen months?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“I was going to.”

“When?”

He didn’t answer.

I turned the page.

There was a lender’s address, a loan reference number, and a section describing the property used as collateral.

My farmhouse.

My land.

Everything my father had worked his entire life to leave me.

I looked at Alden.

“Did you use my property to get this money?”

He stood up.

“It wasn’t supposed to be a problem.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“Not supposed to be a problem?”

“I needed the money for a business opportunity.”

“What business opportunity?”

He looked toward the window.

Then he said something that made my heart sink.

“Brenda’s son.”

I stared at him.

“What does Brenda’s son have to do with this?”

“His trucking company was struggling. He needed capital. I helped him get a loan.”

“You borrowed $186,400 to help your nephew?”

“He promised he’d pay it back.”

I looked down at the paperwork again.

“And you used my land?”

Alden rubbed his face.

“I thought we’d have it paid off before you ever found out.”

I slowly put the document down.

“How could you do that?”

He raised his voice.

“I was trying to help my family!”

I almost laughed.

His family.

That was always the answer.

When Brenda needed money, Alden helped.

When Linda needed a new roof, Alden helped.

When Carol’s car broke down, Alden helped.

When their children needed tuition, Alden helped.

But when I needed a working water heater, I had to heat water on the stove.

When I needed a new winter coat, I waited until the old one had holes in both sleeves.

And now I was supposed to believe he had risked my father’s farm because he was being generous?

“Did you tell Brenda that my land was involved?”

He hesitated.

That hesitation told me enough.

“Alden.”

He looked down.

“She knew.”

I felt something inside me break.

“She knew?”

“She thought it was temporary.”

I pushed my chair away from the table.

“How many people knew about this except me?”

He didn’t answer.

I picked up my phone.

“I’m calling a lawyer.”

His head snapped up.

“Don’t you dare.”

I looked at him.

“You borrowed against my property without my knowledge. You moved my pension without my permission. You closed our joint account. And now you’re telling me not to call a lawyer?”

“We can work this out between ourselves.”

“No.”

“Joanne, listen to me.”

“I have listened to you for forty-five years.”

He stepped toward me.

“You’re going to destroy this marriage over paperwork?”

I looked at the man standing in front of me.

“No, Alden. You don’t get to blame paperwork for what you did.”

I walked into the bedroom and closed the door.

That night, I didn’t sleep.

Not because I was afraid of losing Alden.

I was afraid of losing the home my father had left me.

And for the first time, I understood that the man sleeping in the next room might be the person I needed protection from.

The next morning, I called an attorney named Rebecca Lawson.

Her office was in a small brick building near the courthouse.

I had known Rebecca for years. She had once helped a woman on my mail route settle an estate after her husband died.

When I arrived, she offered me coffee and listened without interrupting.

I placed the loan documents on her desk.

She read every page.

Then she took off her glasses.

“Joanne, did you sign this?”

“No.”

“Did you authorize anyone to sign for you?”

“No.”

“Did you give your husband permission to use your property as collateral?”

“Never.”

She nodded slowly.

“Then we need to investigate how this loan was approved. We also need to obtain the complete loan file, including the original application, any notarized documents, and the property records.”

“Can they take my house?”