The letter was thin, almost inconsequential, on the kitchen table, but it was the return address that caught my eye—our insurance company. As I opened it, the number $1,972.45 stared back at me. A denied claim. Again. I sighed, reaching for the thick folder of medical papers that had become a permanent fixture on our dining room table.
“This can’t be right,” I muttered to myself, flipping through recent claims and invoices. The dining room was quiet except for the gentle hum of the refrigerator, a contrast to the turmoil in my mind.
In the corner of the page, a signature I didn’t recognize. My spouse’s name, but the handwriting was odd. My heart skipped a beat. I picked up the phone, dialing the insurance number, my voice steady as I navigated the automated options. “Representative,” I repeated, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.
When I finally got through, I asked about the signature. Silence, then a polite cough on the other end. “That was signed electronically,” the representative replied. “By the primary policyholder.” But I was the primary policyholder.
My world narrowed to the papers in front of me, and the realization that something was deeply wrong. This was just the beginning.
I hung up, staring at the folder. My spouse walked in, offering a weary smile. “Another bill?” they asked casually, glancing at the stack of papers. I nodded, watching their eyes for any sign of recognition or guilt.
“I’ll take care of it,” I said, my voice betraying none of my inner turmoil.
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
