Chapter 4 - EIGHTEEN MILLION REASONS
Mika put the caller on speaker.
“Send the complete file through your verified company channel,” she said. “This authority is disputed.”
The man became careful immediately.
By dawn, we had copies.
A board resolution.
A corporate guarantee.
A certificate identifying Rafael as an authorized representative.
And my signature.
Perfect at first glance.
Wrong in one place.
For years, I had crossed the second stroke of my surname through the final loop.
This signature ended neatly.
It had been lifted from an old passport application, back when I still signed like a nervous college student.
Mika enlarged the document.
“They didn’t rely only on your mother’s authorization.”
“They forged mine.”
“And company approval.”
The lender had advanced funds while its security paperwork was still being completed. Now the file was stalled, and someone inside the company was asking questions.
Rafael had apparently expected the title problem to disappear.
Maybe he thought my money would make it disappear.
Maybe it always had.
I opened the household account.
Month after month, ₱700,000 entered.
Within hours, most of it left.
Caregiver services.
Medical management.
Property upkeep.
The descriptions looked ordinary.
The receiving accounts did not.
Three companies shared the same mailing address.
Bianca’s old apartment.
I scrolled until the numbers blurred.
Nineteen months.
More than thirteen million pesos sent while my mother slept beside detergent.
At nine, Rafael called.
“You took Mom without her medication.”
“She’s with a physician.”
“You don’t understand her condition.”
“Then send her medical records.”
“Those are private.”
“I’m sure her doctor will know how to request them.”
Silence.
Then his voice softened.
That was the voice he had used when we were children and he wanted me to take the blame.
“Andie. We can fix this without embarrassing the family.”
“What needs fixing?”
“Cash flow got complicated.”
“Did Mom’s bedroom get complicated too?”
He hung up.
An hour later, the housekeeper from next door called the number on my business card.
I had given it to her years ago after she helped my mother carry groceries.
“Ma’am, there’s a truck at your gate.”
“What kind of truck?”
“Moving truck.”
She hesitated.
“They’re carrying out paintings.”
I called Mika.
She was already opening her laptop.
Then the neighbor spoke again.
“Wait. Your brother is bringing out boxes.”
“What boxes?”
“Office boxes.”
A pause.
May you like
“He’s pouring something over them.”
Through her phone, I heard a match strike.
