I sat at the kitchen table, sorting through the day’s mail when I found an envelope that didn’t belong. There it was, my mother’s name in bold letters, but my address below it. It was a bill from St. Mary’s Hospital, dated June 15, with charges that made my stomach churn. I hadn’t even known she’d been to the hospital.

I dialed the number on the bill, my fingers trembling slightly. A calm voice answered, verifying details before transferring me to billing. Each second on hold felt longer than the last.

“Can you confirm who is responsible for these charges?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. The response was polite but clipped: “We have a power of attorney on file, Ms. Emma Rogers.”

Silence hung in the air as I processed the name. Emma, a family friend, had been helping mom, but this was news to me. I ended the call, questions swirling in my mind, and picked up my phone to text Emma. My message was simple: “We need to talk.”

As I waited for a response, I wondered what else I didn’t know.

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