Daniel tried to stop me.
He followed me to the front door.
“You don’t understand what you’re looking at.”
“Then explain it.”
He didn’t.
Instead, he said, “You’re making a mistake.”
I looked at him.
“That’s what you said when you left me.”
Then I walked out.
I didn’t sleep.
At six in the morning, I spread every document across my dining room table.
There were bank statements.
Loan applications.
Property records.
Credit reports.
Insurance documents.
Copies of identification.
And several documents containing what appeared to be my signature.
I stared at one of them for almost five minutes.
It was a loan application.
The borrower was listed as me.
The signature looked like mine.
But I had never applied for that loan.
I called the bank.
The representative confirmed that the account existed.
“Do you recognize this application?” she asked.
“No.”
“Then you need to report it immediately.”
My heart began pounding.
There were more.
A line of credit.
A second loan.
A business account.
A property-related document.
Everything had been opened or signed while I was still married to Daniel.
I suddenly remembered all those moments when Daniel had asked for my driver’s license.
“I need it for the mortgage paperwork.”
