I felt as though he’d struck me.
“That is your response?”
“I’m saying there could be an explanation.”
“Then ask her.”
He pushed the paper away.
“Mom, you don’t understand how these projects work.”
I stood very still.
I had heard those words before.
From bankers who wouldn’t speak to a woman without her husband present.
From contractors who assumed Arthur had built the company alone.
From people who never imagined that I had balanced the books, negotiated the first property lease, and kept our family afloat during the years when his business barely survived.
And now I was hearing them from my own son.
“Nathan,” I said quietly, “look at the date beside my signature.”
He glanced down.
“January fourteenth.”
“Where were you that day?”
He hesitated.
Then his face changed.
“The hospital.”
“Yes.”
He looked at the authorization again.
The room became painfully quiet.
Finally, he whispered, “That doesn’t make sense.”
“No, sweetheart. It doesn’t.”
I left the document on his desk.
And I walked out before he could find another excuse.
The next morning, Caroline came to my house without calling.
She entered through the side door using the key Nathan had given her after Arthur’s funeral.
I found her in the kitchen.
She stood beside the breakfast table, holding a folder against her chest.
