She gave a short, disbelieving laugh.
I stood.
My hands were shaking, but my voice was not.
“You do not get to shop for a place to put me.”
Daniel whispered, “Mom.”
I faced him. “And you do not get to call that concern.”
Janet offered to make me a copy of every page in the file. I accepted. Melissa objected that the documents contained family information. Janet reminded her the application had been submitted in my name.
My information.
My copy.
That distinction seemed suddenly precious.
I did not ride home with Daniel and Melissa.
Janet called a car for me, and I paid for it myself. On the drive home, I held the Rosewood folder on my lap and stared at the forged signature until the loops stopped looking like mine at all.
Whoever had copied it understood the shape but not the pressure.
My real signature leaned slightly uphill because my first-grade teacher had taught us to slant our cursive forward. The fake version sat flat on the line.
It was a strange detail to find comforting.
At home, I did something I should have done months earlier.
I locked the door behind me and made a list.
Not of reasons I was capable.
I was finished auditioning for adulthood.
I listed every place Daniel or Melissa might have access to my information: spare house key, garage keypad, online utility accounts, emergency contact files, the binder I kept beside the refrigerator with medication information, my doctor’s portal, the folder containing my homeowners policy.
Then I called my bank.
After that, my lawyer.
Then my doctor.
By six o’clock, I had changed enough passwords to make myself furious.
Daniel arrived at seven without Melissa.
I did not let him in.
We spoke through the storm door.
“Mom, please.”
“Do you still have a key?”
He looked down.
