My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
Christopher sat in the chair by the radiator, his large hands resting on his knees. He was still wearing the seventy-dollar charcoal wool sweater we had bought on Maple Street. “Your mother does not have a clear conscience, Mia.”
“I know,” I said.
I filled the kettle at the tap and set it on the stove. While I waited for the water to heat, I took the cracked ceramic mug from the cupboard, the one with the chipped blue glaze on the handle, and set it on the table in front of Christopher. He reached out and touched the rim with his thumb, his face dark in the early shadows.
I opened the blue folder. The first document was a carbon copy of an insurance claim form from November five years ago. The paper was thin and yellowed at the edges, smelling faintly of cellar mold. At the bottom of the page, my mother’s signature was written in her sharp, slanted cursive, the ink faded to a dull gray.
“Look at the payout figure,” I said, pointing to the box marked total loss.
