My name appeared on the paperwork.
So did Robert’s.
But the signature beside my name was not mine.
I recognized the shape of my own signature. I had signed thousands of documents during my years at the bank. This one was an imitation.
A convincing one.
But an imitation nonetheless.
I felt the kitchen tilt around me.
For forty-two years, I had trusted Robert with the details of our shared life. We had joint accounts, insurance policies, property records, and savings that we had built slowly through years of work.
I had believed our home was the one place where I never needed to protect myself from him.
Now I was staring at a document suggesting he had tried to borrow money against it without my authorization.
The affair was one betrayal.
This was something else entirely.
“Where did you get this?” I asked.
“It was in the folder he left at my apartment. He said it was part of his financial planning.”
