Mariela clenched her jaw. “I asked you for space, I didn’t deny you help.”
“You told me I was covered in bacteria.”
“Oh, Gaby, don’t be so dramatic. You’ve always been oversensitive.”
I pulled the copies from the loan file and laid them on the bed. “And is this oversensitivity too? My forged signature? My name listed as a primary co-signer?”
For the first time, Mariela went pale. Not enough to confess, but enough to drop the act.
“You knew I needed backing.”
“I didn’t sign anything.”
“We talked about it.”
“That’s a lie.”
“You always said you wanted to help me out.”
“Helping you out doesn’t mean letting you forge my signature so the bank can hold me liable for your apartment.”
Valeria was recording quietly but firmly from her phone. Mariela noticed her and lowered her voice. “If you take legal action, Mom is going to find out that Dad also signed things to help me out before he passed away.”
I felt the room tilt. My dad had passed away two years ago, after selling his truck and canceling his own dental procedures to “support the girls,” as he used to say.
“What things?”
Mariela realized she had said too much. She grabbed her purse. “Just make this month’s payment and we’ll figure it out later.”
“No.”
“Then the bank is going to come after you.”
“Let them. I’m going after the forgery.”
My surgery was the next morning. I went into the operating room afraid, but also with a strange sense of clarity. For years, I thought my money was keeping my sister on her feet. Now I understood that it had only fed her shamelessness. The operation went well. The tumor was benign, the surgeon smiled with exhaustion, and Valeria cried more than I did. Mariela didn’t show up. She sent a text:
“I hope you’re doing well, but don’t forget the apartment situation is still pending.”
I handed the phone to Valeria and closed my eyes.
Three days later, still with a pounding headache and a bandage that made me feel fragile just to breathe, we received the preliminary report from the handwriting expert: the signature did not match my handwriting. The criminal complaint was filed for identity theft, forgery, and financial fraud. The bank immediately froze the internal collection process. That was when Mariela changed her strategy. She showed up at the hotel with my mom, weeping.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she sobbed. “The loan officer told me it was just a formality. He said since you were my sister and you were already helping me, it wasn’t a big deal.”
My mom was deathly pale. “Gaby, please, don’t put her in jail.”
I looked at both of them from the armchair. One terrified of losing her apartment; the other terrified of losing a daughter. And what about me? I had been on the verge of losing myself without either of them ever asking if I even needed a glass of water.