The $2,100 she had texted me to request was not to fund the party. The party was already funded. The $2,100 was to service the debt she had run up on credit accounts she had opened in my name to pay for it.
I called the bank’s fraud line. Evelyn Hayes, calm and professional, pulled up the application. My mother’s name was on it as co-signer. She hadn’t even tried to hide it, which told me she either hadn’t thought it was wrong or had thought I would never look. Evelyn said this was identity theft, a felony, and I would need to file a police report. She said any documentation I could provide would be helpful.
The word documentation gave me an idea.
I downloaded a call recording application. It felt uncomfortable to do, felt like something my mother would do, and the irony of that was not lost on me. But this was not about playing fair anymore. This was about survival with evidence. I unblocked her number and called.
She answered on the first ring. Relief and accusation in her voice in equal measure, the specific blend she used when she wanted to position herself as the worried party. I kept my voice flat, emotionless, a calibration I had never managed as a teenager but had learned through years of practice.
