Chapter 6 - The Signature That Wasn’t Mine
Attorney Mateo Reyes had a cramped office, a slow fan, and no patience for promises he couldn’t keep.
“I can help preserve evidence,” he told me.
“I can challenge threats.
I cannot guarantee what an investigation will find.”
I liked him immediately.
He examined the scholarship records without touching the original letter.
“Did you ever receive payments from this foundation?”
“No.”
“Did anyone pay tuition on your behalf?”
“I had a university merit waiver.
I paid transportation, books, and other expenses myself.”
“How?”
“Cleaning on weekends.
Tutoring.
Selling meals with Mom.”
He pointed to one signature.
“Write your name here.”
I signed a blank sheet.
He compared them.
“The difference is useful.
It isn’t proof by itself.”
He asked for my bank records, enrollment statements, and the university’s scholarship policy.
Then he read the housing message.
“Keep every message.
Ask for formal notice.
Don’t argue by phone.”
“What about Liam?”
His expression softened.
“Are you currently his recognized caregiver?”
“I submitted paperwork after Mom died.
A social worker visited.”
“Good.
Find that acknowledgment.”
I handed it over.
He read carefully.
“This gives us something concrete to work with.
A threat is frightening.
It is not automatically an order.”
I exhaled for the first time all morning.
Professor Santos brought Liam outside while Mateo called the local social services office with my permission.
When she returned, he had another question.
“Did your mother own storage space?
A locker?
A stall?”
“No.”
“The place nobody thought she owned.
That may mean something ordinary.”
I closed my eyes.
My mother owned very little.
What she had, everyone could see.
The bed.
The rice cooker.
The biscuit tin.
Then I remembered the sewing machine.
It had been broken for years.
We kept it at a repair shop because the owner allowed Mom to pay in installments.
She never finished paying.
I sat forward.
“There’s a machine.”
We went that afternoon.
The repairman recognized me.
“Teresa’s daughter.”
“Yes.”
His face fell.
“I heard.”
He brought out the old machine, wrapped in a faded towel.
A strip of tape held the wooden carrying case shut.
My mother’s handwriting appeared on it.
For Bea.
Mateo photographed everything before opening it.
Under the machine sat a narrow blue register.
Inside were dates, payment references, student names, and account numbers.
Beside my name was a receiving account I had never owned.
At the back, someone had slipped in a printed email.
Suspend Ramos disbursements until acknowledgment forms are complete.
Below that was a reply.
Forms handled.
Student unaware.
May you like
The sender’s name made Professor Santos go still.
It belonged to the university’s financial aid director.
