Yellow Ceramic Mug and Red Silk Scarf in a Red Buick

Nicole’s hurried, high-pitched handwriting. It was not her sharp, aggressive strokes that had forged my name.

It was Julian.

My own son had sat down with a blue ballpoint pen and carefully traced my signature, practicing the shaky lines until he could copy them well enough to deceive a notary. The realization was a cold weight in my chest. He had not continue reading …