Marine Returns From Okinawa to Find Her Bungalow Already Sold
My signature on the page was a perfect match for the one I had signed on my old deployment papers three years ago, right down to the tiny ink smudge on the letter ‘M’ from my old rollerball pen.
But the date next to it was typed in a different, cleaner font that did not match the rest of the text.
I touched the paper, realizing the signature was just a copied image pasted onto a new form.
I stared at the photocopy, knowing my own father had used a fake document to strip me of my home.
My father kept his hands flat on the yellow formica table, his calloused knuckles red from the morning air. He did not look at me, focusing instead on the steam rising from his thick white mug. The diner was nearly empty, save for an older couple in the corner booth and the soft hiss of the grease on the grill from the kitchen.
“I have some savings left from when I sold the auto shop,” he said, his gravelly voice dropping to a low whisper. “It is not the whole value of the bungalow, but it is twenty thousand dollars.”
