Chapter 4 - Eighty-Five Thousand Dollars
I did not sleep.
By seven the next morning, the bank had frozen the application.
By eight, I had changed every password I could think of.
By nine, I was sitting across from a fraud investigator named Daniel Brooks.
Amy sat beside me.
Daniel placed printed documents on the table.
The application contained my Social Security number.
My salary.
My employer.
The original purchase price of our house.
Even the balance on our mortgage.
Information my mother should never have had.
Then Daniel showed us the signatures.
Mine looked convincing from a distance.
Amy’s looked worse.
She touched the page.
“That isn’t my signature.”
“I know.”
My signature was fake too.
But Teresa’s name appeared on a legitimate document.
A limited financial authorization form.
It carried Amy’s real signature.
The page she had signed after Frederick was born.
Amy stared at it.
“I thought that was for medical emergencies.”
Daniel shook his head.
“This does not transfer ownership of your property.”
I exhaled slightly.
“But it does authorize Teresa to communicate with certain financial institutions on limited household matters.”
“So she can take our house?”
“No.”
Amy almost collapsed with relief.
Daniel held up a hand.
“But someone attempted to use this form as supporting documentation for the credit application.”
My anger returned immediately.
“Can you prove it was my mother?”
“We can prove the documents were uploaded from an account associated with an email address ending in TBradley.”
Teresa.
Amy looked at me.
“What was she going to do with eighty-five thousand dollars?”
I remembered the party.
The new dress.
The wine.
The way Betsy had said a financially supported woman should earn her place.
I suddenly understood something.
“My mother hasn’t been helping Amy.”
Daniel waited.
“She’s been spending the money.”
We went home and started opening old mail.
Amy had saved everything.
Utility statements showed bills paid from our joint checking account.
Not from Teresa.
Grocery receipts showed Amy using her own debit card.
Frederick’s diapers.
Formula.
Doctor copays.
Clothing.
Almost all of it came from our accounts.
The three thousand dollars I sent Teresa each month had never been necessary.
Then Amy remembered a locked plastic box Teresa kept in the laundry room.
“She said it was birthday decorations.”
We opened it.
There were copies of our mortgage papers.
Tax returns.
Pay stubs.
My company identification documents.
And a blank quitclaim deed.
Amy covered her mouth.
My name was typed onto the first line.
Her name was typed beside mine.
The section for the new owner had been left blank.
I picked up my phone.
Teresa called before I could call her.
I answered.
“Connor.”
Her voice was soft.
Motherly.
As if nothing had happened.
“We need to talk.”
“Yes, we do.”
She sighed.
“You embarrassed me yesterday.”
“You tried to borrow eighty-five thousand dollars against my house.”
Silence.
Then she laughed.
“Is that what Amy told you?”
“The bank told me.”
Another pause.
“She doesn’t understand business.”
“Neither do forged signatures?”
Her voice changed.
“Be careful what you accuse your mother of.”
I looked at the blank deed.
“I found the papers.”
Teresa breathed in sharply.
Then she said something that erased the last piece of doubt I had.
May you like
“You had no right to go through my box.”
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