Rosalind held the third document up to the iron bars so my mother could see it clearly. It was a certified-mail receipt for one of the estate notices, the ones addressed to me at my parents’ house. And there, on the signature line, was my mother’s name, signed in her own hand, accepting delivery of a letter meant for me that I had never once seen. “This notice,” Rosalind said evenly, “informed the beneficiary that a trust had been released in her name. It was signed for at your address four months ago. The beneficiary told me under oath she never received it. So I’ll ask you the same thing a court will eventually ask. Why did you sign for your daughter’s mail and never give it to her?”

My mother’s face went from irritation to something I had never seen on her before: fear. “That’s, that’s a mistake,” she stammered. “I sign for everything. I don’t read it all.” But Rosalind was already turning to the next page. “You also, according to the estate’s records, called our office six times claiming this woman was mentally unstable and financially incompetent, in an effort to delay her distribution.” My father stepped forward, his voice sharp. “You can’t prove any of that.” Rosalind finally looked up, calm as still water. “Actually,” she said, “we can. Every call to the estate is logged and recorded. And that’s the second thing you’re going to need to explain.”