“Don’t make a decision about your marriage just because you’re angry with me, Amanda, or her father. Find out the truth first. Then decide what life you want to build.
“What if she knew everything?”
“Then you’ll have to decide what that means to you.”
Jacob sat down again.
For a few seconds, he seemed like the man he could have been if he had learned to defend his convictions before reaching a crisis.
“Are you ever going to forgive me?” he asked.
I looked at his hands.
They were the same hands that, as a child, I used to hold my wooden spoon when we played at cooking.
“I love you, Jacob. That doesn’t mean you can pretend nothing happened.
He nodded.
“I understand.
I wasn’t sure he really understood it, but at least he wasn’t trying to force me to comfort him anymore.
We keep the documents.
Before leaving, Jacob stopped by the door.
“There’s something I haven’t told you.
I looked at him.
“What?”
He pulled out his phone and showed me a photograph Amanda had sent him the night before, shortly after he left the front desk.
It was an image of a legal document.
The headline read: “Proposal for family and patrimonial agreement.”
Below were our names.
Jacob’s.
Mine.
And Richard Bennett’s.
But there was a fourth signature, at the bottom of the page.
Harold Emerson’s.
Jacob zoomed in on the image.
“Mom, this seems to be signed by Dad.
I felt my heart pound hard.
I looked at the signature.
It was similar to my husband’s, but I couldn’t be sure if it was authentic from a photograph.
And then I saw the date.
The document was dated three months after Harold’s death.
Chapter 5: A Dead Man’s Signature and the Lie My Son Couldn’t Stand
There is nothing more terrifying than seeing the name of a dead person at the bottom of a document that should never have existed.
I stared at Jacob’s screen as he enlarged the image with his fingers.
The signature seemed real at first glance. The initial H, the long stroke of the E, and the small slant at the end resembled Harold’s handwriting.
But the date was impossible.
My husband had died on the fourth of February.
The document was dated May 17.
“Where did Amanda get this?” I asked.
Jacob swallowed.
“You sent it to me last night. He said it was proof that his dad had done nothing wrong.
“And what did you say?”
“I asked him why there was a signature of my father on a document after his death. He did not answer.
I picked up the phone to examine the image.
The document mentioned an alleged authorization to negotiate the family property and use it as support for a financial agreement. It didn’t say that I had transferred the house, but it did suggest that Harold had agreed that Richard could negotiate on behalf of our family.
It was a serious statement.
And it didn’t make sense.
Harold would never have signed such a thing without talking to me.
“We need the original document,” I said.
“Do you think the signature is fake?”
“I think we should not accuse anyone without verifying it.
Jacob ran a hand through his hair.
“How can you be so calm?”
I looked at him.
“I’m not calm. I’m trying not to make the same mistake I made for years: believing that love forces me to solve everything immediately.
He lowered his head.
That phrase seemed to touch something inside him.
“I’m going to ask Amanda to give me the original.”
“Pídeselo in writing.
Jacob looked at me in surprise.
“Why?”
“Because, if someone has created a false document, we need to keep everything that allows us to know where it came from.” I don’t want a conversation to turn into another story that is impossible to prove.
My son nodded and wrote a message.
Amanda responded almost immediately.
“I’m not going to argue with you as long as your mom continues to manipulate you. If you want to know the truth, come to my parents’ house at six o’clock.”
Jacob read the message twice.
“He says you’re manipulating me.”
“It’s easier to blame me than to explain the signature.
“Do you want me to go?”
I thought of Patricia’s letter, the printed mailings, and the questions about my will.
“Yes. But don’t go fighting. Go ask for the original document and listen to what they have to say.
Jacob put the phone away.
Before leaving, he turned to me.
“Can I give you a hug?”
The question surprised me.
For years, my son had hugged me when he needed money, comfort, or help. Now he seemed to understand that even affection had to be offered without assuming that I was obligated to receive it.
I approached and hugged him.
I did it because I loved him.
Not because everything was forgiven.
“Take care, son,” I whispered.
“You too, Mom.
When he left, I closed the door and stayed in the hall for a few seconds.
Then I called the lawyer who had prepared the documents for Harold’s estate.
Her name was Eleanor Price and she had been helping us with legal and estate matters for almost twenty years.
I explained what had happened without exaggerating any details.
He listened in silence.
When I finished, he asked me a question.
“Judith, did Harold ever sign a power of attorney for Richard Bennett to act on his behalf?”
“Not that I know of.
“And you signed any authorization to negotiate your property?”
“Never.
Eleanor suspiró.
“Then don’t sign anything or give the originals to anyone. I’m going to go through the records and tell you what we need to do.
“Do you think the signature is fake?”
“I think the date demands an explanation. It would not be responsible to say more without examining the original document.
I thanked him for his prudence.
Then I prepared a simple meal, although I was hardly hungry. I cut vegetables, heated soup and set the table for one person.
The house was too quiet.
Harold would have once sat across from me, reading the newspaper and asking why I had stopped eating.
I would have told him about Jacob.
He would have listened with that patience of his that sometimes made me desperate.
And I probably would have said that people show who they are when they think they have something to gain.
At ten minutes to six, Jacob called me.
“I’m at the Bennetts’ house.
“Did they give you the document?”
“Not yet.
