PART 5
For a few seconds, I couldn’t speak.
I looked at James.
He had heard enough from my expression to understand that something had happened.
“What is it?” he asked.
I held up one finger, asking him to wait.
“Carol,” I said into the phone, “are you telling me someone forged my signature?”
“I’m telling you that a document has been submitted bearing what appears to be your signature.”
“Where?”
“To the county records office.”
My stomach turned.
“What does the document say?”
“That you agreed to transfer a partial ownership interest in the cabin.”
“To Briana?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Fifty percent.”
I closed my eyes.
The cabin.
Robert’s cabin.
The place where we had spent twenty years building memories.
Someone had tried to make half of it theirs with a signature that wasn’t mine.
“When was it filed?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
The same day James and Briana had driven to the cabin.
The same day Briana expected the property to be waiting for her.
The same day she had arrived with her parents and luggage.
This wasn’t a vacation.
It had never been a vacation.
It had been a move.
“Carol,” I said, “what happens now?”
“Nothing happens until we challenge it. But I need you here today.”
“I’ll be there.”
I ended the call.
James was standing completely still.
“What did she say?”
I told him.
His face went white.
“She forged your signature?”
“It appears that way.”
“Mom…”
“I know.”
“No. You don’t understand.”
“What?”
He sat down.
“There was a folder in our house.”
“What folder?”
“I thought it was about the mortgage.”
“What was in it?”
“I don’t know. Briana told me not to touch it.”
I stared at him.
“Where is it?”
“At home.”
“Then we’re going there.”
He stood.
“I’ll get it.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“We’ll get it together.”
Briana wasn’t at the house when we arrived.
Her car was gone.
James unlocked the door.
The house felt strangely unfamiliar.
Maybe because I had never before entered it knowing that my son had been keeping secrets from me.
James went directly upstairs.
I followed.
He stopped outside their bedroom.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t want you to think I knew.”
“I don’t.”
“You really don’t?”
“No.”
He opened the closet.
There was a black filing box behind several winter coats.
He pulled it out.
The box was heavier than I expected.
Inside were mortgage statements, tax records, bank documents, and several envelopes.
James began sorting through them.
Then he stopped.
“Here.”
He handed me a folder.
My name was written across the front.
I opened it.
The first page was a photocopy of the cabin deed.
The second was a property valuation.
The third was a letter from a real-estate attorney.
Then I saw the number.
$1.48 million.
I stared at it.
James whispered:
“I didn’t know it was worth that much.”
Neither did I.
Robert and I had bought the land decades earlier.
We built the cabin slowly.
Over the years, the surrounding area had changed.
Tourism had exploded.
Property values had risen.
The little mountain cabin we had once thought of as our escape was now worth nearly one and a half million dollars.
I turned the page.
There was a handwritten note.
Possible equity solution: transfer 50% interest to daughter-in-law / refinance / sell if necessary.
My hands began shaking.
Then I saw another note.
Owner unlikely to cooperate voluntarily.
I looked at James.
He was staring at the page.
“Mom…”
I turned another page.
There was an email printout.
From Briana.
To the real-estate agent.
The subject line read:
Cabin Ownership Discussion
The message was short.
“Sylvia is emotionally attached to the property, so James may need to convince her gradually. Once the transfer is done, we can refinance and solve the mortgage problem. If she refuses, we may have to consider whether she can legally prevent us from using the property since James is her only child.”
I stopped reading.
James took the page from my hands.
His face collapsed.
“She wrote that?”
“Yes.”
He read it again.
Then again.
He sank onto the edge of the bed.
“She was planning this.”
“Yes.”
“I never knew.”
“I believe you.”
He covered his face.
“I married her.”
I sat beside him.
“That doesn’t make you responsible for every decision she makes.”
“But I brought her into your life.”
“James.”
He looked at me.
“You don’t have to punish yourself for loving someone who made terrible choices.”
He wiped his eyes.
“What do we do?”
“We go to Carol.”
Carol’s office was quiet when we arrived.
She had already prepared a folder.
She placed it in front of me.
“This is the document that was filed.”
I looked at the signature.
At first glance, it looked like mine.
Almost exactly.
The curve of the S.
The way the last letter extended.
Even the small upward stroke Robert used to tease me about.
But something bothered me.
“What date does this say I signed it?”
“June 14.”
I frowned.
“June 14?”
“Yes.”
“I was in Charleston that week.”
Carol nodded.
“I know.”
I looked at her.
“How?”
“Because you sent me the hotel receipt when we were updating your estate documents.”
She pulled out another file.
There it was.
My hotel reservation.
June 13 through June 17.
Nearly five hours away.
I stared at the evidence.
Then Carol said something that made my heart stop.
“There’s more.”
She placed another page on the table.
“This is the notary information.”
I read the name.
I didn’t recognize it.
“Was this notarized?”
“Yes.”
“By whom?”
Carol pointed to the bottom.
I read the address.
Then I looked at her.
“This is the address of Briana’s parents’ business.”
Carol nodded.
“That was my concern.”
James stood up.
“So her parents were involved?”
“We don’t know yet,” Carol said. “But we know the notary is connected to them.”
I looked at James.
He looked devastated.
“My father-in-law?”
