Chapter 11 - His Name, Someone Else's Pen
Dad stared at the photograph of the work order until his good hand began to shake.
"That's my name," he said. "But it isn't my writing."
Lena advised us to preserve the original through the vehicle inspector and make a formal report. She explained that a forged name wasn't proof of who had done it, no matter how obvious the motive looked. I hated that caution. I needed someone to say, You won, it's over.
But I'd watched Dad spend six weeks in pain because somebody had said a broken lift was safe. Guessing wouldn't fix anything.
A patient advocate helped us request the hospital's records of the attempted discharge. A workers' rights attorney agreed to review Dad's case. Neither promised a fast result.
"This is what I wanted when I wrote that report," Dad said. "Not revenge. Someone willing to look."
Sophie squeezed his hand. "We're looking, Dad."
That evening our landlord left a reminder under our apartment door. Rent was due in nine days. The catering agency still had my name on hold. My phone had fifty-seven unread messages, most from people who had never met me.
I stood in our narrow kitchen measuring coffee into the last filter when a courier knocked.
He handed me an envelope with my name typed across the front. Inside was a note from an attorney representing Victoria Langford.
Ms. Langford wishes to resolve these misunderstandings privately. Please come alone.
May you like
Below it was an address for a downtown office and a sentence that made my stomach twist:
We are prepared to discuss immediate assistance with your father's medical expenses.
