Chapter 2 - Four Missing Payments
By the time Daniel and I got home, I was too angry to cry.
I opened the banking app on my laptop and pulled up every transfer made to my mother over the previous eighteen months.
There they were.
Month after month.
$800.
$800.
$800.
Then $1,900.
Then $800.
Then $800.
Then $3,200 for property taxes.
Then $800.
Daniel sat beside me, silent.
We had made those payments automatically for so long that they had become background noise.
A routine.
Something responsible adults did for aging parents.
I clicked the transaction from four weeks earlier.
“Delivered.”
The bank showed the transfer had cleared.
“So she got it.”
“Yes,” Daniel said.
“And the mortgage company says the payment wasn't received.”
He nodded.
“That means the money went somewhere else.”
I looked at him.
“Don't say it.”
“I wasn't going to.”
“You were thinking it.”
“Yes.”
I closed the laptop.
My stomach felt sick.
“Call her.”
“She won't answer.”
“She'll answer you.”
Daniel tried.
Straight to voicemail.
He tried again.
Nothing.
Then his phone chimed.
Unknown number.
A text.
PLEASE STOP CALLING ABOUT MY MOTHER'S HOUSE. YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT.
I looked at Daniel.
“What the hell?”
“That's not Mom.”
I took the phone.
The number wasn't saved.
“Maybe Natalie?”
Daniel shook his head.
“No.”
I called the mortgage company.
A representative named Melissa answered after twenty-three minutes on hold.
I gave her the account information that appeared in my mother's old statements.
She hesitated.
“Are you an authorized party?”
“No.”
“Then I can confirm only limited information.”
“I don't need private information. I need to know why the account is showing delinquent after we've been paying.”
Melissa paused.
“You said you've been making payments?”
“Yes.”
“Directly to the borrower?”
“Yes.”
“Then the issue may be outside the mortgage servicing system.”
“Meaning?”
“It may mean the borrower did not apply those funds to this loan.”
I closed my eyes.
That was exactly what I feared.
“Can you tell me whether there has been any recent modification request?”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“About six months ago.”
My eyes opened.
“Who requested it?”
“The borrower.”
My mother.
“What kind?”
Melissa lowered her voice.
“Hardship modification.”
Daniel looked at me.
“What did she claim?”
“I can't discuss that.”
“Please.”
“I can tell you the file lists medical expenses and dependent support.”
I felt my pulse pounding.
My mother had medical expenses.
But none that Daniel or I knew of.
And dependent support?
She lived alone.
Melissa continued.
“There was also a second lien inquiry.”
I looked at Daniel.
“A second mortgage?”
“I said an inquiry, not an active second lien.”
“When was it?”
“About seven months ago.”
My mother had never told us.
Neither had the bank.
Because she didn't have to.
This was her property.
Her loan.
Her life.
But she'd let us believe our money was keeping the house afloat.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
Before hanging up, Melissa added, “Ms. Williams?”
“Yes?”
“You should know that the account is approaching the stage where legal action becomes possible.”
“How long?”
“I cannot give you a specific timeline.”
“Is the house about to be foreclosed?”
“I strongly recommend the borrower contact us immediately.”
The call ended.
Daniel leaned back.
“I want to hire someone.”
“An attorney?”
“Tonight.”
I stared at the ceiling.
“This is insane.”
“You don't know that it's fraud.”
“I know she's lying.”
“That's not the same thing.”
“I know.”
That was the problem.
I didn't know enough.
At eight that evening, Natalie arrived at our house.
She looked exhausted.
She hadn't even changed from the baby shower.
“Mom called me.”
My chest tightened.
“What did she say?”
Natalie walked inside.
“She said I needed to choose.”
Daniel stood.
“Choose what?”
“Between being a good daughter and believing Claire.”
I closed my eyes.
“What did you say?”
“I hung up.”
That surprised me.
Natalie had spent years avoiding conflict.
She was the peacemaker.
The one who apologized even when someone else had hurt her.
“Then why are you here?”
She stared at me.
“Because she sent me something.”
She placed a folder on our kitchen island.
I opened it.
Inside were copies of documents.
A power of attorney.
A financial authorization.
A notarized form.
My mother's name appeared on several pages.
Natalie's did too.
I looked up.
“What is this?”
Natalie swallowed.
“Mom said it was paperwork to help her in case she got sick.”
Daniel took one page.
“This authorizes her to act on your behalf.”
“I didn't read it carefully.”
“When did you sign it?”
“Six months ago.”
Exactly when the mortgage modification had been requested.
My mouth went dry.
“Did Mom ask you to sign anything else?”
Natalie stared at the floor.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“She asked for a copy of my driver's license.”
Daniel put the document down.
“Why?”
“She said the bank needed proof of family relationship.”
I looked at the pages again.
There was something missing.
“What bank?”
Natalie shook her head.
“I don't know.”
A notification appeared on my phone.
A banking alert.
Not from my account.
From Daniel's old joint account with me.
I opened it.
It wasn't a transaction.
It was a security message.
New external account added.
My hands went cold.
“That account was closed,” Daniel said.
“It was.”
We had closed it almost a year ago.
I clicked the details.
The external account name appeared.
M. Williams.
Account ending in 4429.
My mother.
Daniel stared.
“How did she add that?”
“She couldn't.”
“Not without authorization.”
We both looked at Natalie.
Natalie's eyes filled with tears.
“I didn't do it.”
“I know.”
My phone rang.
This time, it was my mother.
I answered.
Her voice was strangely calm.
“I heard you're digging into my finances.”
I didn't respond.
She continued.
“You should stop.”
“Where is our money, Mom?”
Silence.
Then:
“You don't understand the situation.”
“Then explain it.”
“I will.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Where?”
“Your father's old office.”
I froze.
Dad had been dead for four years.
His office had been emptied three years ago.
“No.”
“Yes.”
She took a breath.
“You want answers? I'll give you answers.”
“What happened to the mortgage payments?”
Another silence.
Then my mother said something that made my blood run cold.
May you like
“Some of those payments weren't for my house.”
The line went dead.
