Her response was immediate, « Of course. I can send you the authorization forms we have on file. » A few minutes later, an email pinged in my inbox. I opened the attachments, scanning each document. There it was again—my sibling’s signature, neatly placed next to Mom’s scrawl. How had I missed this?
The next morning, I woke early, the sun barely peeking through the curtains. I knew I needed to confront this, but the thought of it filled me with a quiet dread. I spent the morning organizing the documents, aligning them by date, highlighting the discrepancies.
At noon, I received a call from the bank, a different advisor this time, who wanted to confirm my appointment for the following day. « We’ll have everything ready for you, » the voice assured me. As I confirmed the appointment, I felt a knot tightening in my chest.
That afternoon, I decided to visit Mom. She was in her usual spot in the living room, the television playing softly in the background. We chatted about mundane things—her health, the weather—until I couldn’t hold it in any longer. « Mom, » I started, « I found something odd with your bank statements. »
Her expression shifted, confusion marring her brow. « What do you mean, dear? » she asked, her voice tinged with fatigue. I hesitated, choosing my words carefully, « There are transactions I wasn’t aware of. It seems like someone else has been managing your accounts. »
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