The following week, I arranged a meeting with the estate lawyer. His office was a sterile space, every surface polished to a shine, every paper meticulously filed. The scent of leather and polished wood hung in the air, a stark contrast to the chaos I felt inside.
“I’ve reviewed the documents in question,” the lawyer began, adjusting his glasses as he spoke. “It’s clear that several unauthorized transactions took place. However, tracing them back to the source will require more investigation.”
His words were measured, but they carried a weight of inevitability. “And what about the signatures?” I asked, leaning forward, the edge of desperation creeping into my voice.
“It’s possible they were forged,” he replied, his voice steady. “We’ll need to get handwriting experts involved.”
Outside the office, I called Anna, hoping to hear something that would make sense of the situation. She answered on the third ring, her voice tinged with hesitation.
“Dad, I… I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you everything, but I was scared,” she confessed, her words tumbling out in a rush.
“Scared of what, Anna?” I pressed, my frustration bubbling over.
“Of losing you,” she replied softly, the vulnerability in her voice cutting through my anger.
Her confession hung in the air, a reminder of the fragile bond we were struggling to mend.
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