CHAPTER 8: THE TRIAL DATE
The trial was set for four months later.
The judge scheduled it for a Tuesday in March. I had plenty of time to prepare.
I spent those months gathering evidence. I collected bank statements, text messages, emails, and witnesses. I met with Marcus weekly to go over the case. I gave depositions. I testified before the grand jury.
My mother pleaded not guilty. Her lawyer argued that she had been coerced by my father—that he had forced her to forge my signature, that he had manipulated her into committing fraud. It was a lie, and everyone knew it. But it gave her time.
I visited my mother once, at the county jail.
She was thinner than I remembered. Her eyes were hollow and haunted. When she saw me, she didn't smile.
"You came," she said.
"I don't know why."
"To gloat, probably. To enjoy watching me suffer."
"I didn't come to gloat. I came to ask you one thing."
"What's that?"
"Why did you do it?"
She stared at me for a long moment. Then she laughed. A hollow, bitter laugh.
"Why? Because you always had everything. The house. The career. The money. And Jacob had nothing."
"He had nothing because he never worked for anything."
"He was struggling. He needed help."
"Help isn't fraud. Help isn't forgery. Help isn't stealing from your own daughter."
"You don't understand. You've never understood."
"No, Mother. You never understood. You never understood that I was a person too. With feelings. With rights. With a life that mattered."
She looked away. "I did what I had to do."
"You did what you wanted to do. And now you're going to pay for it."
I walked away.
I didn't look back.
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Because she was no longer my mother. She was just a woman who had made terrible choices.
And I was done letting her choices define me.
