I finished my coffee before I looked at the red folder again.
That was new.
For days, the papers had been the first thing I touched when I sat at the kitchen table.
This morning, I made myself eat breakfast.
I washed my plate.
I wiped the counter.
Then I sat down with my notebook.
The three questions were still written at the top of the page.
Who signed the lease renewal?
Who provided my driver's license?
What obligation was the document supposed to create for me?
I had copied them so many times that I could have written them without looking.
But knowing the questions didn't mean I had the answers.
My attorney had explained what information we needed to request.
She wanted the original lease records.
Not just the copies I had discovered.
She wanted to know who prepared the renewal, how it was submitted, and what supporting documents had been included.
I understood why.
The signature on my copy could show that somebody had written my name.
It couldn't tell us who held the pen.
The license photocopy showed that my personal information had been included.
It didn't tell us who supplied it.
Those differences mattered.
I was tired of making guesses.
I wanted something that could be checked.
At nine that morning, I called my attorney.
She answered with the same steady voice I'd heard during our meeting.
"Good morning."
"Good morning. I've been thinking about the records."
"I expected you might."
I looked at my notebook.
"Can we request them?"
"Yes. I want to make sure we ask for the complete file, including how the documents were received."
I wrote that down.
"The complete file."
"That's right."
I asked whether the records would tell us everything.
"Not necessarily."
Her answer disappointed me.
I think she heard it in my silence.
"Sometimes a record answers one question and raises another," she said. "We need to see what's available before drawing conclusions."
I looked at the red cover.
I wanted her to tell me the matter would be resolved as soon as the papers arrived.
She didn't.
And I was learning to appreciate that.
Brandon had spent the previous discussion offering reassurance without explaining anything.
My attorney was doing the opposite.
She was explaining what we didn't know.
It wasn't especially comforting.
But it was useful.
I told her I wanted the requests to go through her office.
I didn't want Brandon claiming I'd contacted people behind his back.
I didn't want Susan turning an ordinary records request into another argument about family loyalty.
Most of all, I didn't want Valerie caught between competing versions of what I had supposedly done.
My attorney listened.
"We can communicate directly with the appropriate parties about the documents," she said.
"Thank you."
"Keep what you have in its original order."
"I will."
After we ended the call, I opened the folder.
I checked the lease renewal.
Then I checked the license photocopy.
Nothing had changed.
I knew it wouldn't.
Still, a part of me had expected the documents to look different now that someone was taking the matter seriously.
They didn't.
The signature remained where it had always been.
My photograph remained on the photocopied identification.
I placed the pages back together.
Then I closed the folder.
I had made the request.
There was nothing more I could learn from staring at those same sheets that morning.
I carried the folder back to the safe place where I'd been keeping it.
When I returned to the kitchen, my phone was on the table.
There was no new message from Valerie.
I noticed that immediately.
Then I was annoyed with myself for noticing.
She had answered my previous message.
She had told me she loved me.
She had said she wanted us to talk when things were calmer.
That was something.
I didn't need another message to prove she meant it.
But I wanted one.
I wanted her to call and ask how I was feeling.
I wanted her to ask whether I'd slept.
I wanted her to say she'd been thinking about what happened.
I wanted things I had never learned how to ask for.
For years, I had told myself that mothers weren't supposed to need reassurance from their children.
We were supposed to provide it.
We were supposed to be strong.
Patient.
Available.
I knew that wasn't entirely fair.
Adult children had their own lives.
Their own worries.
Their own limits.
But I had gone so far in the other direction that I sometimes acted as though I didn't have feelings at all.
Valerie had probably seen me accept hurtful things without complaint more times than she could count.
She might have believed they didn't affect me.
I had helped create that impression.
I didn't want to repeat it.
I picked up my phone.
For a moment, I thought about asking whether she wanted to have coffee.
Then I stopped.
I wasn't avoiding her.
But I didn't want to arrange a visit simply because I couldn't bear the uncertainty.
We had agreed to speak again.
I could allow her some time.
I put the phone down.
The house felt unusually quiet.
There were dishes drying beside the sink.
A towel hanging from the oven handle.
The ordinary signs of a life that had continued while I worried about my daughter.
I walked through the living room.
Susan had once made a remark about how small it was.
I remembered smiling.
I remembered telling her that I didn't need much space.
That had been true.
It was still true.
But I wished I'd told her there was no reason to criticize it.
My home had been good enough for me.
It had been good enough for Valerie when she was growing up.
I had worked hard to maintain it.
That should have been enough.
I stood near the window.
I wondered why I was thinking about Susan when I had documents to worry about.
Then I understood.
I was beginning to examine the ways I'd allowed people to speak to me.
And once I noticed one, I remembered another.
It would have been easy to spend the entire day reviewing every insult.
I didn't want to do that.
The past mattered.
But I couldn't change every moment when I'd stayed silent.
I could only decide how I would respond next time.
My phone rang in the afternoon.
It was Valerie.
I answered before I could think too much.
"Hi."
"Hi, Mom."
Her voice sounded normal.
That surprised me.
I'd grown so accustomed to tension that hearing her speak casually almost made me suspicious.
I didn't want to feel that way.
"How are you?"
"I'm all right. How are you?"
She hesitated.
"I'm tired."
"Have you been sleeping?"
"Not very well."
I looked toward the kitchen.
"Neither have I."
There was a short silence.
Then she asked whether I'd spoken to my attorney again.
"Yes."
"What did she say?"
"We're requesting the records connected to the lease renewal."
Valerie didn't answer immediately.
I waited.
"Is that really necessary?"
I felt the familiar pressure in my chest.
I could have told her I was sorry.
I could have explained how terrible I felt about involving outside parties.
Instead, I answered her question.
"Yes."
She sighed.
"Mom, I thought we were going to try to get along."
"We are."
"Then why keep doing this?"
I sat down.
"Because getting along doesn't answer what happened to my signature."
She didn't speak.
I kept my voice gentle.
"I want us to have a better relationship, Valerie. I meant that."
"I know."
"But I still need to understand the paperwork."
"Brandon says it's going to make everything worse."
I looked at the clock.
There was a time when hearing Brandon's opinion would have made me reconsider immediately.
I would have wondered whether I was being difficult.
Whether I'd embarrassed my daughter.
Whether I was creating trouble that could have been avoided.
This time, I asked a question.
"What does he mean by worse?"
"I don't know exactly."
"Did he explain?"
"Not really."
I let that answer remain.
I didn't criticize Brandon.
I didn't tell Valerie what to think of him.
I simply said, "Then I hope the records will help us understand."
She was quiet.
I could hear a faint sound behind her.
A door closing, perhaps.
I didn't ask where she was.
For a moment, I wanted to tell her how frightened I'd been when I found the driver's license.
How it had felt to see my personal information attached to something I hadn't approved.
But we'd already discussed that.
I didn't want to keep repeating my fear in the hope that one day it would make her agree with me.
I wanted facts.
Eventually, Valerie asked whether we could talk about something other than the lease.
The request surprised me.
Then it made me sad.
I realized how long it had been since we'd had an ordinary conversation.
"Of course," I said.
She told me she'd been busy.
She mentioned little things from her day.
Nothing particularly important.
I listened.
I asked a few questions.
For several minutes, we sounded almost like ourselves.
Not the mother and daughter from the argument.
Just two people who had known each other for thirty years.
I was grateful for that.
I didn't try to turn the conversation into a lesson.
I didn't mention Susan.
I didn't ask whether Brandon was influencing her.
I didn't tell her how much she had hurt me by excluding me from the wedding.
Those conversations had their place.
But this one didn't need to become another examination of our relationship.
When she said she had to go, I told her I loved her.
She said she loved me, too.
The call ended.
I sat quietly for a few minutes.
I felt better.
Not because anything had been resolved.
Because we'd managed to speak without hurting each other again.
That mattered to me.
I returned to my notebook.
I looked at the questions.
I still wanted to know who had signed my name.
I still wanted to know where the license copy had come from.
And I still wanted to understand what the lease renewal was supposed to make me responsible for.
I wasn't going to withdraw those questions.
But I was beginning to understand something else.
I didn't need every conversation with Valerie to revolve around the investigation.
We could talk about ordinary things.
We could acknowledge the hurt between us.
And I could continue protecting my identity.
Those actions didn't cancel each other out.
Later that evening, my attorney sent a short confirmation that the appropriate records request was being prepared.
I read it carefully.
Then I put my phone away.
There was nothing to do until more information became available.
I didn't like waiting.
I had always been someone who wanted to solve problems quickly.
When Valerie was young, I could often make things easier with a phone call, a conversation, or a decision.
This was different.
The truth wasn't something I could create by working harder.
It had to be established.
I made dinner.
I ate at the kitchen table.
When I finished, I washed the dishes.
I thought about taking out the red folder.
I didn't.
I knew where it was.
I knew what it contained.
And I knew the questions would still be there in the morning.
For once, I allowed myself to end the day without finding an answer.
Click here to continue reading: PART 14: Susan Called My Questions an Attack on the Family, but I Was Beginning to Recognize the Difference Between Privacy and Silence
They Said I Was Only Angry About the Wedding, but Nobody Could Explain Why My Signature Was on Their Paperwork
Part 13 of 20
