I barely slept that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the name Summit Peak Investments printed on the document.
I kept wondering why a company I had never dealt with would appear in papers concerning my house.
I also wondered why Caroline had been so quick to take the page away from me.
If it was an innocent mistake, why had she become angry when I asked questions?
By morning, I had decided to stop guessing.
I needed someone who could tell me what the paperwork actually meant.
I knew an attorney named Diane Foster.
I had met her through a customer at the diner years earlier, and I remembered that she handled estate and property matters.
I called her office and explained that I needed an appointment as soon as possible.
Her assistant found a time that morning.
I gathered the papers Caroline had left behind before taking them away, including the pages I had managed to keep, and placed them in a large envelope.
Then I drove to Diane's office.
I remember the waiting room more clearly than I remember the drive.
There was a clock above a filing cabinet, and I spent several minutes listening to its steady ticking.
I had always been good at dealing with practical problems.
A broken refrigerator at the diner could be repaired.
An overdue bill could be paid.
A difficult customer could be asked to leave.
This was different.
The problem involved my daughter.
When Diane opened her office door, she greeted me warmly and invited me to sit down.
I placed the envelope on her desk.
"I need you to look at something."
She pulled the documents out one by one.
At first, she said very little.
She read the headings, checked the dates, and turned several pages over to examine the printed details on the back.
Then she returned to the document concerning my house.
"Did you agree to transfer this property?"
"No."
"Did you sign this authorization?"
"No."
She looked at me carefully.
"Did Caroline explain why this document was included?"
"She said it was a mistake."
Diane placed the paper on her desk.
"Margaret, I don't think you should treat this casually."
I felt my stomach tighten.
"What are you seeing?"
She explained that the document was designed to transfer ownership of my house.
It wasn't a routine medical form.
It wasn't an ordinary arrangement for someone helping an elderly parent with daily responsibilities.
It concerned the ownership of my property.
I sat with my hands folded in my lap.
"Could somebody transfer my house without my knowing?"
"They shouldn't be able to do so legally, but we need to look at what's already been filed."
She asked me a series of questions about my property and my financial records.
I answered as best I could.
Then she examined another document that she had obtained information about during her review.
Her expression changed.
"There's something else."
I leaned forward.
"What is it?"
She explained that someone had already attempted to submit a property-transfer document carrying my signature.
The filing had been rejected by the county recorder's office because the notarization was defective.
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
I knew I hadn't authorized a transfer.
I knew I hadn't signed such a document.
But hearing that someone had already tried to move my property into different ownership made the situation real in a way the folder on my kitchen table hadn't.
"You're saying somebody used my name?"
"I'm saying this document appears to have been submitted as though you had authorized the transfer."
She turned the page toward me.
I studied the signature.
It was supposed to be mine.
The shape of the letters was familiar enough to fool someone who didn't know me well.
But I hadn't written it.
My hands began to tremble.
I pressed them together.
"Could Caroline have done this?"
Diane didn't rush to answer.
"I can't tell you who submitted it based on this alone. But I can tell you that the filing is serious, and we need to protect your property and finances."
I nodded.
I wanted a clear answer.
I wanted her to tell me there had been a misunderstanding and that I could go home and forget the whole thing.
Instead, she began explaining the steps I needed to take.
First, I had to secure my bank accounts.
Then I needed to review who had access to my financial information.
I should not sign any additional documents until she had examined them.
And I should keep copies of everything.
I listened carefully.
I had spent years teaching my grandchildren to look both ways before crossing a street.
Now I was sitting in an attorney's office learning how to protect myself from the possibility that my own child might be trying to take my home.
It was humiliating.
I was ashamed that I had trusted Caroline so completely.
I was also ashamed that part of me still wanted to defend her.
Perhaps Richard had prepared the paperwork without explaining it to her.
Perhaps someone else had made the attempt with my signature.
Perhaps there was a reasonable explanation for all of it.
Diane seemed to recognize the struggle on my face.
"Margaret, you don't have to decide what kind of person your daughter is today."
She paused.
"But you do have to protect yourself today."
That sentence stayed with me.
I thanked her and took the envelope back.
Before I left, she made sure I understood that I should contact her immediately if anyone pressured me to sign anything or tried to gain access to my accounts.
I promised I would.
Then I went directly to my bank.
I had kept my accounts there for years.
The staff knew me, and I knew the woman who helped me review my information.
I told her I needed to change my passwords and tighten the security on my savings account.
She helped me make the changes.
I also arranged for any transfer exceeding five thousand dollars to require additional verbal verification.
If the bank detected a suspicious attempt, it would place a temporary hold on outgoing funds while the situation was reviewed.
I wanted as many barriers as possible between my money and anyone who might try to move it without my permission.
The bank employee asked whether I had reason to believe someone was trying to access my accounts.
I hesitated.
Then I told her that I had discovered a suspicious property document and wanted to be cautious.
She didn't press me for details.
She simply helped me complete the necessary steps.
When I left the bank, I felt a little steadier.
Not safe, exactly.
But less helpless.
I drove to a small shop and bought a cheap prepaid flip phone.
It was the sort of phone I remembered from years ago, with a small screen, raised buttons, and a plastic casing that clicked when I opened it.
I didn't need anything fancy.
I needed a way to call someone if my main phone became unavailable.
I saved Diane's number in the first speed-dial position.
Then I tested it.
Her office answered, and I told the receptionist I was checking that the phone worked.
I thanked her and hung up.
I slipped the little black phone into the bottom of my purse, beneath a packet of tissues and an old receipt.
I didn't tell Caroline about it.
I didn't tell Richard.
I didn't tell anyone.
I wasn't sure I would ever need it.
I hoped I wouldn't.
For several days, nothing unusual happened.
Caroline sent a message asking whether I had thought more about the paperwork.
I told her I was still reviewing my arrangements.
She replied that I was being stubborn.
I didn't answer.
Richard didn't call, but I caught myself looking at my phone whenever it rang.
Every unfamiliar number made me uneasy.
I hated what the situation was doing to me.
I had spent most of my life trusting people until they gave me a reason not to.
Now I was checking documents twice and keeping a second phone hidden in my purse like someone who expected trouble.
I wondered whether I had become suspicious without cause.
Then I remembered the forged signature.
That was enough to stop me from dismissing my concerns.
Three weeks after my visit to Diane, I woke before dawn with a crushing pain in my chest.
At first, I thought it was indigestion.
I sat on the edge of my bed and waited for the discomfort to pass.
It didn't.
The pressure spread, and I began sweating.
My breathing grew difficult.
I reached for my phone with shaking fingers and called for emergency help.
The next part came in pieces.
The ambulance.
The flashing lights against the ceiling.
A paramedic asking me questions while another checked my condition.
The hospital doors opening.
Then the unfamiliar smell of antiseptic and the bright lights above the treatment area.
The doctors told me I had suffered a heart attack.
It was serious, but the emergency treatment stabilized me.
When they moved me into a hospital room, I was exhausted.
I wanted to sleep.
I wanted to wake up in my own bed and discover that the whole thing had been a frightening dream.
Instead, I lay beneath thin white sheets, listening to the quiet sounds of equipment around me.
My purse had been brought with my belongings.
I made sure it was within reach.
The little black phone was still inside.
I didn't know yet how important that cheap plastic object would become.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: My Daughter Arrived Smiling and Kissing My Forehead, but Her Eyes Went Straight to the Phone Beside My Bed
I Thought Raising My Daughter Alone Would Mean She Would Stand Beside Me When I Needed Her Most
Part 2 of 12
