“I can’t lift Noah,” I whispered into the phone. “Dad, please take him for one night.”

My four-week-old son was down the hall in the hospital nursery. A delivery truck had struck my car that evening, leaving me with a broken arm, cracked ribs, and stitches above my eyebrow. I could barely sit up without help, and I was terrified of bringing Noah home while I couldn’t hold him safely.

Music drifted through the phone. My parents were hosting my younger sister Whitney’s engagement dinner, and I could hear guests talking behind my father.“Tonight is important to Whitney,” he said.

“I know. I’m only asking you and Mom to look after Noah until we make another plan.”

“You chose to raise a baby on your own, Claire. You can’t expect everyone to rearrange their lives whenever things get difficult.”

I stared at the cast on my right arm. “I was in a car accident.”

“And she’s getting engaged tonight.” His voice hardened. “You made your own bed. Now lie in it.”

The call ended. I kept the phone against my ear for several seconds, listening to silence where his voice had been.

Whitney had always been the one my parents protected. If she forgot an appointment, she had too much on her mind. If I asked for help, I should have planned better. I had spent years explaining away the difference, but I couldn’t explain this one.
An hour later, Maren sent me a message. She had obtained one more document from the trust administrator: a form submitted shortly after Whitney accepted my notice. It requested a payment from my share and carried a signature that was supposed to be mine.

I enlarged the image on my phone. Whoever had signed it had copied the letters of my name carefully. But I knew I had never seen that form before.