Then Mom asked me to open the bottom drawer of the basement dresser.
Inside was a blue folder.
Bank statements. Copies of checks. A handwritten ledger.
And a document titled PROPERTY MANAGEMENT AUTHORIZATION.
My mother’s signature appeared at the bottom.
Mom looked at it for barely a second.
“I never signed that.”
Vanessa went pale.
I stared at her. “You forged her name?”
“She told me I could handle things.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“She would have signed it.”
“But she didn’t.”
For the first time that night, Vanessa’s polished expression cracked.
“You abandoned us,” she said. “You got to live overseas, make money, post pictures from Singapore, and pretend sending checks made you a daughter. I was here.”
Mom spoke quietly behind me.
“You were here because you lost your apartment.”
Vanessa turned.
Mom continued, her voice stronger. “I let you stay six months. Then you took my bedroom. Then you rented Clara’s room. Then you told me the basement was temporary.”
