The bank office was quieter than usual, the soft hum of fluorescent lights filling the room. I sat across from the advisor, my hands resting on a folder containing Mom’s scattered financial documents. It was a Tuesday morning, and the air was thick with the weight of unspoken questions. The advisor, a woman in her mid-forties with a poised demeanor, pushed a particular bank statement toward me. “This is from March 12th,” she said, tapping the paper gently. I nodded, my eyes tracing the familiar name at the bottom—my sibling’s signature.

“Everything seems to be in order,” she added, her voice a practiced calm, though the statement’s balance told a different story. My mind raced with the implications. Who had authorized these transactions? And why hadn’t I been informed? My sibling had always been the one ‘taking care’ of things, but this discovery tilted the balance of trust.

I stared at the signature again, wondering how many more secrets lay hidden in the pages. As I thanked the advisor and gathered the documents, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being a stranger in my own family’s affairs. There was more to uncover, and I knew this was just the beginning.

Back home, I spread the papers across the dining table. Each statement, each line, a breadcrumb leading to a truth I wasn’t sure I wanted to find. The numbers danced in front of me, and I realized how much I had missed by being absent.

“You know, it’s really nothing,” my sibling had said last Christmas when I asked about Mom’s finances. But now, those words felt like a veil, thin and misleading. I picked up the phone to call them, but hesitated, unsure of the conversation that would follow.

Instead, I dialed the financial advisor again, seeking clarity. The line rang twice before she answered, her voice steady and professional. “I have a few more questions,” I began, my voice firm. “About the account authorizations.”

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