The next few days were quieter.
Valerie did not call as often.
When she did, our conversations usually ended with her asking about money.
I began to recognize the pattern before the questions came.
She would tell me about a problem at the apartment.
She would mention an expense Brandon had not expected.
Then she would pause, waiting for me to offer help.
I no longer filled that silence.
I waited for her to say what she actually wanted.
Sometimes she became irritated.
Other times, she ended the call.
I hated the distance between us.
But I was learning that I could not repair it by paying another bill.
Meanwhile, I continued gathering records.
Mr. Harrison had asked me to keep everything connected to the lease renewal.
I made copies of the papers I had at home and stored them separately from the originals.
I wrote down the dates of conversations that concerned the apartment.
I saved messages from Valerie and Brandon.
The process felt tedious.
It also gave me something solid to do when my mind began returning to the wedding.
One afternoon, I sat at the kitchen table and reviewed the papers from my visit to the notary.
I had written down the instructions I received about requesting the marriage records.
I had not obtained the full certificate.
I had not yet confirmed who had signed as a witness.
Those questions remained open.
I knew that.
Still, the possibility that my name had appeared among the witnesses bothered me more than I could explain.
A witness's signature was not the same thing as a signature on a lease renewal.
The circumstances were different.
But both raised the same basic question.
Had someone used my name without my knowledge?
I wanted to ask Valerie directly.
I also wanted to avoid accusing her before I had proof.
Those two wishes pulled me in opposite directions.
I called Mr. Harrison's office.
When I explained my concern, he reminded me to keep the matters distinct.
The lease renewal could be examined as part of the apartment records.
The marriage certificate would need to be obtained through the proper procedure.
If there was evidence that my identity had been used without authorization, we could discuss the appropriate next steps.
He did not promise that the records would reveal what I suspected.
He did not tell me that Valerie was responsible.
He simply helped me understand how to proceed.
That was what I needed.
I thanked him and hung up.
Then I sat quietly, looking at the red folder.
It was strange how much power a few pieces of paper could have over a family.
I had once thought that love was enough to keep people honest with each other.
Now I understood that love could exist alongside secrets, and that trust did not make a person immune to being harmed.
I still loved Valerie.
I also needed answers.
That evening, I decided to speak with her again.
I did not call to argue about the bills.
I did not bring up Susan's comments.
I wanted to ask about the marriage records and give Valerie a chance to tell me what she knew.
She answered after several rings.
"Hi, Mom."
Her voice sounded tired.
"Hi, sweetheart. Do you have a minute?"
"What is it?"
I almost laughed at the guarded tone.
Then I reminded myself that I had called for a reason.
"I need to ask you something about the wedding paperwork."
She went quiet.
"What about it?"
"When I visited the notary, I explained that I had reason to believe my name might have been used as a witness. I haven't received the full certificate, and I don't know whether that suspicion is correct."
She did not answer.
I waited.
"Valerie, did you see the marriage documents before they were filed?"
"Why are you asking me that?"
"Because you're my daughter, and I would rather ask you directly than make assumptions."
She breathed out sharply.
"I don't remember every piece of paper from that day."
I believed that she might not remember every detail.
A person could attend a ceremony without studying every form.
But I was not asking her to remember every piece of paper.
I was asking whether she knew anything about my name being used.
"Do you remember anyone signing as a witness under my name?"
"No."
Her answer came quickly.
I waited a moment.
"Are you sure?"
"Mom, I said no."
I heard frustration in her voice.
I wanted to believe her.
I also knew that a quick answer was not the same as a verified answer.
"All right," I said. "I'm not accusing you. I need to establish what happened."
She asked why I could not let the marriage be a happy memory.
I looked down at the papers.
"Because I wasn't told about it, and now I have questions about documents connected to it. I can't ignore those questions just because they're uncomfortable."
She said I was determined to ruin everything.
That hurt.
I had not asked for the wedding to be hidden from me.
I had not created the questionable renewal letter.
And I had not chosen to discover the ceremony through photographs posted by someone else.
Yet I was the person being accused of ruining the family.
"I want the truth, Valerie," I said. "That is all."
She told me she had to go.
I let her end the call.
For several minutes, I remained still.
I had hoped the conversation would give me some peace.
Instead, it reminded me how little I knew about what had happened that week.
I opened the drawer and took out the blue bankbook.
I ran my thumb over its worn cover.
For years, it had represented my promise to make sure Valerie would never have to struggle the way I had.
I had kept that promise as best I could.
But I had never promised to surrender my own judgment.
I put the bankbook away.
Then I returned to the red folder and checked that the documents were in order.
I would continue through the proper channels.
I would not invent answers to fill the silence.
I would not decide that my daughter was guilty simply because I was hurt.
But I would not accept a denial as a substitute for evidence, either.
That night, I slept a little better.
Not because the questions had been answered.
They had not.
I slept better because I had finally stopped asking myself whether I was allowed to ask them.
I was.
And whatever the records eventually showed, I would have to face the truth without abandoning myself to protect someone else from it.
Click here to continue reading: PART 9: The Envelope I Kept Beside My Blue Bankbook and the Phone Call That Made Me Question Everything I Had Believed About Valerie
The Sunday Lunch When My Daughter Finally Answered the Question I Had Been Afraid to Ask
Part 8 of 20
