Chapter 3: The Nursing Home Appointment
The next morning, I drove my mother to a small café on the edge of town.
She hadn't slept much. Neither had I.
Vanessa had locked herself in our bedroom after our argument, and when I checked on my mother before dawn, I found her sitting beside her suitcase with a folded sweater in her lap.
She had been preparing to leave.
Not because she wanted to.
Because she believed staying would destroy my marriage.
I had carried her suitcase back into the closet and told her she wasn't going anywhere.
Now she sat across from me in the café, turning a teaspoon between her fingers while rain tapped against the windows.
"Did Vanessa really take you to look at a nursing home?"" I asked.
My mother shook her head.
"She went alone.""
"How do you know?""
"She told me about it when she came back.""
"What did she say?""
My mother looked toward the window.
"She said she'd found a lovely place with gardens, a library, and nurses available day and night. She said I'd be comfortable there.""
"Did you tell her you wanted to go?""
"No.""
"Did you tell her you needed that kind of care?""
"No.""
Her answers were quiet but certain.
I reached across the table and covered her hand with mine.
"Then why would she make that appointment?""
My mother swallowed.
"She said it would be easier for everyone if I lived somewhere with people my own age.""
I stared at her.
"Everyone?""
"She said you were under too much pressure. She said you had a career to think about, and perhaps children someday.""
My jaw tightened.
Vanessa and I had discussed having children, but we had never agreed on a timeline. We'd been married for four years. She knew my mother was the closest thing I had to a permanent home.
"Did she say I wanted you gone?""
My mother hesitated.
"She said you hadn't said it directly because you didn't want to hurt me.""
I leaned back.
Vanessa hadn't simply taken advantage of my mother's kindness. She had used my name to make my mother afraid of me.
The waitress approached with two coffees.
"Everything okay here?"" she asked.
My mother forced a smile.
"Yes, thank you.""
When the waitress left, I pulled out my phone.
"I'm calling a lawyer.""
My mother stiffened.
"Ethan, please don't ruin your marriage because of me.""
I stared at her.
"She threatened to send you away.""
"Perhaps she was only trying to help.""
"Mom, stop defending her.""
The words came out harsher than I intended.
My mother recoiled slightly.
I immediately regretted it.
I reached for her hand again.
"I'm sorry. I'm not angry with you.""
She nodded, but her eyes had gone distant.
"I know what it feels like to be unwanted," she said.
I waited.
"When your father died, people told me I was young enough to start over. They said raising you alone would be too difficult. Some even suggested I send you to live with relatives while I worked.""
Her thumb moved slowly over the handle of her cup.
"I never considered it. You were my child. You weren't a burden to be managed.""
My throat tightened.
"And I would never treat you that way," I said.
She smiled sadly.
"I know, sweetheart. But sometimes people can make you doubt what you know.""
I called Daniel Brooks, a lawyer who had helped me establish my company. I explained the payments, the pawnshop receipt, and the nursing home consultation.
He listened without interrupting.
When I finished, he asked, "Does your wife have access to your mother's bank accounts?""
"Not that I know of.""
"Does she have power of attorney?""
"No.""
"Has your mother signed any documents your wife prepared?""
I looked at my mother.
She had gone pale.
"Mom?""
She slowly reached into her handbag.
"I didn't know what it was.""
She placed a folded document on the table.
My heart began to pound.
The first page carried the name of a residential care facility. The second contained a consent form for an assessment of my mother's ability to live independently.
The third page was a financial authorization.
My mother's signature appeared at the bottom.
I stared at it.
"Mom, did you sign this?""
"Vanessa said it was permission for the facility to give her information. She said she needed to understand the costs.""
I read the heading again.
The form authorized access to specified financial and medical information, including records relating to my mother's retirement income and living arrangements.
It wasn't a transfer of ownership, but it was far more than a simple brochure request.
"Did anyone explain this to you?""
"No.""
I took photographs of every page and sent them to Daniel.
His reply came within minutes.
Do not sign anything else. Bring the originals to my office. We need to establish exactly what authority, if any, has been granted.
I showed the message to my mother.
She pressed both hands over her mouth.
"I didn't mean to cause trouble.""
"You didn't cause this.""
But as I gathered the papers, I noticed something at the bottom of the last page.
A handwritten note.
*Assessment must be completed before Ethan returns.*
I read it twice.
Then I called Daniel again.
"Someone wanted this done while I was away.""
"Keep your voice down," he said.
"Don't confront anyone until we know what we're dealing with.""
I looked through the café window.
My car was parked beside a row of wet trees. Across the street, an elderly man was helping his wife into a wheelchair while holding an umbrella over her head.
I wondered how many people would have seen my mother on her knees and assumed she was simply doing chores.
How many would have believed Vanessa's explanation.
How long had my mother been swallowing her humiliation to protect me?
Daniel's voice brought me back.
"There's something else I need you to check. Ask your mother whether she received any official correspondence about a change in her residence or benefits.""
I turned to her.
"Have you received any letters about changing your address or your pension?""
She shook her head.
"No. Everything still comes to the house.""
"Do you collect the mail yourself?""
Her expression shifted.
"Not always.""
"Why?""
"Vanessa said she would sort it for me. She told me some letters were advertisements and that I didn't need to worry about them.""
My grip tightened around the phone.
"Mom, has she ever kept a letter from you?""
"I don't know.""
"Think carefully.""
My mother closed her eyes.
Then she remembered something.
"Three weeks ago, a large envelope arrived. Vanessa took it upstairs. Later, she said it was a mistake and that the bank had sent me information about an account I didn't have.""
"What bank?""
"First National, I think.""
I looked at Daniel's number on my screen.
"Was there an account number on the envelope?""
"I couldn't see it.""
"Did you ask Vanessa to give you the letter?""
"Yes.""
"What did she say?""
My mother looked down at her hands.
"She said I was becoming suspicious of everyone and that you would be disappointed if I kept questioning her.""
I ended the call after promising Daniel we'd visit his office that afternoon.
Then I sat quietly, trying to make the pieces fit.
The monthly payments.
The pawned bracelet.
The nursing home consultation.
The authorization form.
The missing bank letter.
It was possible Vanessa had simply become greedy and cruel. It was possible she had convinced herself that my mother's money was a fair price for allowing her to stay.
But the handwritten note suggested planning.
And the missing letter suggested something beyond rent.
My mother reached across the table.
"Ethan?""
I looked up.
"Yes?""
"If I tell you something, will you promise not to get angry?""
I felt a chill move down my spine.
"I'll listen.""
She opened her handbag and removed a small notebook with a faded blue cover.
"I started writing things down because I was afraid I'd forget what Vanessa told me.""
She turned to the last page.
There were dates, amounts, and short notes in her careful handwriting.
October 3: $500. Vanessa said Ethan approved.
November 3: $500. Electricity and groceries.
December 5: $800. Vanessa said the house needed repairs.
I turned the page.
January 4: $800. Vanessa said I was costing Ethan more than I realized.
Then, near the bottom, I found an entry dated three weeks earlier.
September 29: Vanessa asked me to sign a paper. She said it was only about the nursing home. She told me not to mention it to Ethan until everything was arranged.
Beneath it, my mother had written one more sentence.
She said Ethan had already agreed.
I stared at the words.
I had never agreed to anything of the sort.
My phone vibrated.
Daniel had sent another message.
I searched the public records available to me. Before you come in, I need to ask you one question.
A second message appeared.
Did you authorize your wife to open a bank account in your mother's name?
I looked at my mother.
She was watching me, her hands clasped so tightly that her knuckles had turned white.
"No," I whispered.
Then another notification appeared.
This one was from an unfamiliar number.
The message contained a photograph of a bank document bearing my mother's name.
Underneath it were eight words.
*Your wife isn't the only person taking money.*
I enlarged the photograph.
At the bottom of the document, beneath my mother's name, was a second signature.
Mine.
May you like
Except I had never signed it.
And whoever had sent me that photograph had just given me a reason to suspect that the person who had been helping Vanessa might be someone I trusted, too.
