I set my fork down very slowly. “You had a lawyer draft a deed to my house,” I repeated, “before asking me.” My mother waved her hand. “Don’t be dramatic, Hannah. Family shares.” I reached into my tote bag — the same bag I carried blueprints in — and pulled out a manila folder of my own. I’d been carrying it for three weeks, waiting for the right moment. Apparently the moment had arrived with the pumpkin pie.
“Funny you mention sharing,” I said. “Because last month the title company called me. Someone tried to refinance MY house using a forged power of attorney.” The table went silent. Trent’s phone hit the floor. “The notary stamp,” I continued, sliding the documents out one by one, “belongs to Aunt Diane. The signature attempting to impersonate me was written in Trent’s handwriting. And the email coordinating it all came from your AOL account, Mom.”
My father’s face drained of color. My mother opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. “It was a misunderstanding —” “It’s a felony,” I said quietly. “Identity theft, forgery, attempted mortgage fraud. My attorney has copies. The FBI field office has copies. I wasn’t going to press charges, because you’re my family. But then you asked me to hand over the deed willingly, so you could finish what you started without the paperwork.”
I stood up. Folded my napkin. Placed it neatly on the chair. “Here’s what happens now. Trent moves out of the guest house I’ve been letting him live in rent-free. You stop calling. You stop showing up. And if I ever see another document with my forged signature, I let the prosecutor decide what sharing means.” My mother started crying — the performance kind, loud and wet. I picked up the quitclaim deed she’d brought, tore it cleanly in half, and dropped the pieces into her wine glass. “Save room for pie,” I said. “I’m having mine to go.” I drove home to my four bedrooms and slept better than I had in a decade.
