“And if they already forged something?”
“Then we document it. Quietly. Properly.” Martin’s voice softened. “No public scene. No dramatic confrontation. You need a lawyer, not a war.”
I looked down at the forged signature again.
For most of my life, I had been the dependable one. The daughter who paid bills when Mom’s shop slowed down. The sister who covered Brittany’s rent after college. The wife who helped Ethan through two career changes and never complained when his plans required my stability.
I had been praised for being generous.
Then punished for being available.
The phone on my desk buzzed.
I flinched.
Martin glanced at it. “Do you want me to leave?”
“No.”
I turned the screen over.
Ethan.
His name glowed like a word from a language I no longer spoke.
I let it ring.
A voicemail appeared.
Then a text.
Where are you? Your mother says you walked out. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.
A second message followed.
We should talk like adults. Brittany is emotional. The baby needs peace.
A third.
Come home tonight. We’ll explain everything.
Martin said nothing, but his eyes dropped briefly to the messages.
“Did he know I would find out today?” I asked.
“I cannot answer that.”
I almost put the phone down, but another message arrived, this one from my mother.
Emily, please don’t punish the baby for adult mistakes. Brittany needs family right now.
Adult mistakes.
As if a child had spilled juice on a tablecloth.
As if betrayal were a weather event that had passed through and left everyone damp.
My thumb hovered over the keyboard.
For one heated second, I wanted to write everything I had swallowed in that hospital room. I wanted to ask my mother how long she had known. I wanted to ask whether she had looked at my husband holding Brittany’s hand and thought of me even once.
Instead, I locked the phone.
“What would your grandmother tell you to do?” Martin asked quietly.