At 3:45 on Christmas afternoon, after I had spent two days cooking dinner for my son and daughter-in-law, my doorbell finally rang. It wasn’t them. A courier handed me a manila envelope in Lauren’s handwriting: “We decided to spend Christmas at my mom’s house this year. Last minute change. Hope you understand.” My husband had been gone only nine months. By sunrise the next morning, I found another envelope hidden outside in Richard’s handwriting, and the message inside sent me straight to the desk he had told me not to touch.

“For whom?”

His jaw tightened.

“I’m trying to help.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“You’ve had a terrible year.”

“Yes.”

“Nobody expects you to be on top of everything.”

“I am.”

“I’m not saying you’re incapable.”

Interesting.

Not saying you’re incapable.

It contained the accusation while pretending not to.

I looked across the street at Lauren.

She was watching through the windshield.

“Does Lauren own property in New Hampshire?”

David stopped moving.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Why are you asking about that?”

I opened the folder.

“Do you recognize this?”

He glanced down.

The copied check was on top.

His expression changed.

Not dramatically.

He simply became very still.

“Mom, I can explain.”

“I’m listening.”

“It wasn’t what Dad made it into.”

“Then tell me what it was.”

“Lauren and I had an opportunity. The financing had to move quickly.”

“So you forged my name.”