Just sign the papers, Mom. The house is basically ours already — you can

I walked to the hallway drawer, but I didn’t reach for glasses. I reached for a slim manila folder I’d been keeping there for eleven months. When I came back, I set it gently on top of his transfer papers. Marcus frowned. “Mom, what is this?”

“Oh, just a little reading of my own,” I said, pouring myself a fresh cup. “You remember Dr. Halstead? Your father’s old friend? I’ve been having tea with him every Thursday. Turns out, when your husband dies, banks send you all sorts of interesting statements. Especially about accounts opened in your name that you never authorized.”

Vanessa’s cup froze halfway to her lips.

“Forty-seven thousand dollars, Marcus. Drawn against a home equity line you opened using my signature. A signature that, according to the forensic handwriting analyst Dr. Halstead recommended, does not match any known sample of mine from the last four decades.”

Marcus went the color of old milk. “Mom, I was going to tell you—”

“You were going to tell me after I signed the house over,” I said. “Because the moment I did, the fraud would technically become a family matter and much harder to prosecute. Clever. But not clever enough.”

I slid a second document from the folder. “This is from my attorney, Ms. Ruiz. The house is now held in an irrevocable trust. Beneficiary: the Lakeside Children’s Hospital, where your father spent his last months. You are specifically named as excluded.”

Vanessa stood up so fast her chair scraped. “You can’t—”

“I can. I did.” I looked at my son, and for a moment I saw the little boy who used to bring me dandelions. Then I saw the man who tried to steal from his own mother. “You have until Sunday to repay the forty-seven thousand, or Ms. Ruiz files the report Monday morning. Your choice, sweetheart.”

I picked up his transfer papers, walked to the sink, and dropped them in with the breakfast dishes. Then I smiled — the same smile he used to love.

“More coffee?”