The envelope was lying on the table among the other correspondence, white, with the blue Fairview National Bank logo on it. I didn’t notice it right away, busy sorting through my utility bills. Only after finishing my second cup of coffee did I pick up the envelope and twirl it in my hands. Strange. I hadn’t done any business with Fairview National.
Opening the letter, I ran my eyes over the first few lines and felt a chill run down my spine.
“Dear Mrs. Toiver, you are reminded of your late monthly mortgage payment.”
What followed was an amount that made me dizzy: $7,243.80.
“What the hell is this?” I muttered as I kept reading. The letter said I was behind on my second monthly payment on a $950,000 mortgage loan made in March. If I didn’t pay the arrears within two weeks, the bank would be forced to begin foreclosure proceedings.
My first thought was to call the bank and explain there had been a mistake. I had never taken out a loan for such an astronomical amount. My little house on Elm Street, purchased with Harold thirty‑two years ago, had long since been paid off. Why would I, a sixty‑seven‑year‑old widow, take out a new loan?
I dialed the Fairview National number listed in the letter. After a long wait on the line, I finally heard the operator’s voice.
“Hi, this is Winifred Toiver. I received a letter about a late payment on a loan, but there’s some mistake. I didn’t take out any loan from your bank.”
“Just a moment, Mrs. Toiver. I’ll check the information,” the girl replied politely.
While she studied the data, I looked out the kitchen window at my small but well‑kept garden. Harold had died ten years ago, and since then I had lived alone in the house, gradually adjusting to the life of a widow. Forty‑three years together, and then nothing. No, not quite empty. I had children, Harper and Lennox, but they’d long since gone on with their own lives, not often thinking of their mother.
“Mrs. Toiver?” The operator’s voice brought me back to reality. “According to our records, on March 14 of this year, you actually took out a mortgage loan in the amount of $950,000 for a period of thirty years. The loan was for the purchase of real estate at Lake View Terrace, number 27, in Concord.”
“But that’s impossible,” I exclaimed. “I’ve never signed any paperwork for a loan—especially not for that amount of money.”
“We have all the documentation we need, Mrs. Toiver,” she said. “Including your signature on the loan agreement, copies of your passport, Social Security number, and tax returns for the last three years.”
My mouth went dry. Someone had used my information to apply for a loan for a colossal amount of money.
“It’s fraud,” I said firmly. “Someone stole my data.”
“In that case, you should go to the police, Mrs. Toiver. And you should come to our head office with identification for a hearing. But I must warn you that until the situation is cleared up, the bank will hold you responsible for the loan payments.”
After the call, I sat down at my desk, hands shaking. Who could have done such a thing? Who had access to my documents?
Suddenly, the phone rang. My daughter’s name popped up on the screen.
“Mom, did you remember it’s Zoe’s birthday today?” Harper began without greeting. “We’re expecting you at three. And please don’t wear that awful green sweater. This is a restaurant, not your vegetable garden.”
Zoe—my granddaughter—was turning twelve. Of course I remembered and had already prepared a gift, a silver bracelet with a star pendant.
“I remember, Harper,” I said. “But I have a serious problem. I got a letter from the bank—”
“Mom, don’t start that again,” she interrupted with ill‑concealed irritation. “If you get another credit card advertisement, just throw it away. How many times do I have to tell you you don’t need to open all these letters?”
“Harper, it’s not about commercials. Someone put almost a million dollars’ worth of credit in my name.”
There was a pause on the phone.
“What is this nonsense, Mom?” Harper finally said with a nervous chuckle. “Who would give a pensioner such a loan? You’re confusing things.”
“I’m not confused,” I objected. “I have a letter from the bank. It says in black and white there’s a loan for $950,000 issued in my name—and supposedly with my signature on it.”
“Mom, your blood pressure must be skyrocketing again.” Harper’s voice took on that sweet, caring quality that always meant the utmost irritation. “Are you sure you took your pills today?”
“Stop talking to me like I’m an old woman out of my mind.” I rarely raised my voice, but I couldn’t help it now. “I’m sane, and I know exactly what’s going on. Someone stole my information and took out a loan, and I’m going to report it to the police.”
“The police? Oh my God, Mom. Are you trying to embarrass us for the whole town?” Harper sounded panicked. “Look, I’ll come over after work. I’ll look at this letter and we’ll figure it out, but for God’s sake, don’t make any calls.”
“Okay,” I agreed, feeling a little perplexed by this reaction. “Come by after work.”
Hanging up, I sat thinking. My daughter’s reaction seemed strange to me. Had she gotten too anxious over the threat of going to the police? Harper was usually the first person to advise me not to make a fuss about nothing.
To distract myself, I decided to get ready for my granddaughter’s party. I took a dark blue dress out of my closet—the one I wore only on special occasions—and began to iron it. My thoughts kept returning to the mysterious loan.
At three in the afternoon, I was at the Golden Lily restaurant—a pretentious establishment with exorbitant prices and tiny portions. Lennox, my son, was already there with his wife, Deirdre, and their teenage children, fifteen‑year‑old Nolan and fourteen‑year‑old Marilyn. Lennox worked as a customs broker and always emphasized his status with expensive watches and suits.
“Mom, you didn’t comb your hair properly again,” he said instead of greeting me as I approached the table. “Your hair is sticking out over your left ear.”
“Hello, Lennox.” I ignored his remark. “Hello, Deirdre. Hi, guys.”
The teens mumbled something in response, still glued to their phones. Deirdre nodded with a polite smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“Where’s Harper?” I asked, sitting down in the offered chair.
“Delayed at work,” Lennox replied. “Some problems with the Ward family. You know how responsible she is as an inspector.”
Harper worked in social services, dealing with dysfunctional families. She always said her job was to rescue children from incompetent parents. Sometimes I thought that phrase was a rebuke to me, too.
We’d been at the table for half an hour when Harper finally showed up with her husband, Frank, and the birthday girl, Zoe. My granddaughter, tall for her age, with brown hair, wore an expensive dress that made her look like a miniature copy of her mother.
“Grandma, you’ve come,” Zoe exclaimed with faint surprise, as if my presence at her birthday party were unusual.
“Of course I did, dear. I would never have missed your birthday.” I handed her a neatly wrapped box with the bracelet. “Happy birthday.”
Zoe took the gift without much enthusiasm and set it aside without even unwrapping it.
“Thank you,” she mumbled, then turned to her cousin Marilyn to show her something on her phone.
“Mom, what kind of story did you make up about the loan?” Harper whispered, leaning close to my ear while the others studied the menu.
“I didn’t make anything up,” I answered just as quietly. “I have a letter from the bank.”
“For God’s sake, don’t talk about it in front of everyone.” Harper straightened and said loudly, “Mom, do you want salad or soup?”
Lunch passed in a tense atmosphere. Lennox and Harper discussed general business, occasionally turning to me with condescending questions like, “Do you still remember Uncle Robert?” or, “Mom, are you sure you’re doing okay alone in this big house?”
My house was far from big—just three bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchen—but the kids periodically hinted I should move to a smaller place. I suspected they just wanted to sell the house and split the money.
After lunch, as Zoe opened presents, I noticed Harper and Lennox exchange meaningful glances when my granddaughter carelessly set aside the silver bracelet.
“Must be old‑fashioned,” Harper muttered so I could hear.
I wanted to say it was a replica of my grandmother’s bracelet, one she’d worn all her life, but I kept silent. What was the point of explaining the value of things to people to whom only price mattered?
When the party was over, Harper said she’d stop by my house in an hour. I took the bus home, feeling strangely anxious. Something about my daughter’s behavior made me uneasy.
At home, I reread the letter from the bank one more time. The address of the property purchased with the loan looked familiar. Lake View Terrace was a new upscale lakeside neighborhood frequently featured in the local paper. Had someone stolen my information to buy a house there?
While waiting for Harper, I turned on the computer—a gift from Lennox last Christmas. “To keep you up to date, Mom.” I wasn’t very good with computers, but I had basic skills. I opened a search engine and typed the address: Lake View Terrace 27, Concord.
Photos of a luxurious two‑story house with panoramic windows and a view of the lake appeared on the screen. The value of such a property could indeed be about a million dollars. I scrolled down the page and froze when I saw information about a recent sale. The house had been sold in March of this year, and the date of the transaction coincided with the date the loan was processed.
I heard a car pulling up and looked out the window. Harper had parked her brand‑new SUV in front of the house. I noticed the car was new; she’d previously owned a mid‑size sedan. When my daughter entered, I immediately noticed her nervousness. She avoided my eyes and fixed her hair too often—a gesture that always gave away her excitement.
“Where is that letter, Mother?” she asked without taking off her coat.
I silently handed her the envelope. Harper ran her eyes over the text quickly, and I saw her turn pale.
“It’s some kind of mistake,” she said uncertainly. “Or a scam. Someone used your data.”
“That’s exactly what I told you on the phone this morning,” I said. “And I was going to report it to the police.”
“No, no, no,” Harper said hurriedly. “I’ll take care of it myself. I have a friend at Fairview National who can help me sort it out.”
“I found out something, too,” I said calmly. “The address in the letter is a new house on Lake View Terrace. It’s a very nice house, according to the pictures on the internet. Two stories. Overlooking the lake.”
Harper looked up sharply.
“You looked on the internet?”
“Yes,” I nodded. “And I also noticed you have a new car. I don’t remember you saying you planned on changing it.”
“Mom, what are you trying to say?” Harper’s voice became hard.
“Nothing yet,” I shrugged. “Just an observation.”
Harper clutched her purse nervously.
“Look, I told you I’ll deal with that stupid letter. You have nothing to worry about.”
“I think I do,” I countered. “Someone took out a loan in my name, used my documents, forged my signature, and if I don’t pay that loan, I’ll lose the house.”
“No one’s taking your house away from you,” Harper exclaimed with sudden fury. “Damn it, Mom. Why do you always have to make everything so complicated? I told you I’d solve the problem.”
She was almost shouting, and I could see red blotches on her neck—a sure sign of extreme agitation. There was only one thing that could cause such a reaction: Harper knew more about the loan than she was saying.
“It’s you,” I said quietly, looking her straight in the eye. “You took out the loan in my name.”
My daughter looked away.
“Don’t be silly, Mom. Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “But I’m going to find out.”
Harper snatched the letter out of my hands.
“I’m taking this. And please don’t do anything stupid. Don’t call the bank. Don’t go to the police. I’ll take care of it.”
She ran out, slamming the door. I was left standing in the middle of the living room, feeling strangely devastated. My own daughter had stolen my information to buy a million‑dollar house—a house she hadn’t even told me about.
I walked slowly to my computer and reopened the page with pictures of the house on Lake View Terrace—a luxurious building with huge windows and a terrace overlooking the lake, a place I’d never been invited to.
In my inbox, I noticed an unread message from the bank. When I opened it, I saw an electronic copy of the loan agreement sent to my address when the deal was finalized. In the borrower’s signature column was a forgery of my signature—so crudely done it was strange the bank hadn’t noticed.
I leaned back, feeling cold rage building inside. For years, my children had treated me like a burden, tolerated my presence at family events with barely concealed irritation, talked to me like I was dim. And now Harper had crossed the final line. She hadn’t just stolen my data; she’d jeopardized the only thing I had left—my home, my independence, my dignity.
I pulled my notebook from the desk drawer and flipped through it for the right number. I needed a lawyer—but not the kind Lennox would recommend. I needed someone who would take my side against my own children.
Attorney Rowan Jett’s office was in an old brick building in the business section of Concord. I found her contact in the city directory, where she modestly advertised herself as a specialist in elder‑law defense and financial abuse. Exactly what I needed. I called first thing in the morning, and the secretary, to my surprise, made an appointment for the same day at two‑thirty.
Getting off the bus, I stood in front of the entrance for a while, gathering my wits. The word lawyer had always sounded intimidating to me. I’d only gone to a lawyer twice in my life: when Harold and I bought a house, and when we drew up his will. In both cases it was Harold’s acquaintance, and he handled all the negotiations.
“I can handle it,” I told myself, pushing open the heavy door.
