Chapter 8: The Side Nobody Saw
I didn’t call my mother back.
That was the first thing I did right.
For once, I didn’t react.
I didn’t chase answers.
I didn’t run toward the person who sounded the most certain.
Because certainty had become the most dangerous thing in my life.
Everyone was certain.
Malik was certain Devin was manipulating me.
Devin was certain Malik was hiding something.
My mother was certain they were both lying.
And somehow, every single one of them had evidence.
I stood in the middle of my living room with my phone still pressed against my ear long after the call ended.
“Simone.””
Malik’s voice was quiet.
I lowered the phone.
“What?””
He looked at me carefully.
“Are you okay?””
I almost laughed.
It was such a normal question.
A question he should have asked months ago.
Not now.
Not when our entire marriage was collapsing around us.
“My mother called me.””
His face changed.
“What did she say?””
“That you’re lying.””
He nodded slowly.
“I figured.””
“And that Devin is the person I should be afraid of.””
Malik looked away.
A reaction.
Small.
But there.
“You believe her?””
“No.””
The answer surprised him.
And it surprised me too.
Because I didn’t believe anyone anymore.
“I don’t believe anyone.””
The words hung between us.
For a moment, Malik looked like he wanted to say something.
Then he stopped.
Maybe because he finally understood.
Trust wasn’t something you could demand after breaking it.
It was something you had to rebuild.
And neither of us knew if there was anything left to rebuild.
“I need to see my mother,” I said.
Malik nodded.
“Okay.””
“You’re not going to stop me?””
“No.””
“Why?””
“Because you deserve answers from her.””
That was the first thing he had said all day that didn’t feel like a defense.
It almost made me feel worse.
Almost.
My mother lived thirty minutes away.
The entire drive there, I kept remembering the woman I thought I knew.
The woman who packed my lunches when I was a kid.
The woman who stayed beside my hospital bed.
The woman who cried at my wedding.
The woman who told me:
“Marriage isn’t about finding someone perfect. It’s about choosing someone every day.””
Now I wondered if she had believed those words.
Or if she had just wanted me to believe them.
When I arrived, her car was in the driveway.
She was waiting.
That was the first thing that felt wrong.
My mother always needed time.
Time to prepare.
Time to clean.
Time to make tea.
Time to create the version of a moment she wanted people to see.
But today, she was sitting on the porch before I even knocked.
Like she knew I was coming.
Like she had been waiting for this.
“Simone.””
Her voice broke slightly.
I stopped at the bottom of the steps.
“How long?””
She looked down.
“Come inside.””
“No.””
The word came out stronger than I expected.
“I’m tired of going inside places where people already know the truth except me.””
Pain crossed her face.
“Simone.””
“How long?””
She looked away.
And that was all I needed.
The answer was in the silence.
“You knew.””
“I knew some things.””
I laughed quietly.
“Everyone’s favorite answer.””
She stood.
“I was trying to protect you.””
I closed my eyes.
“Mom.””
“I mean it.””
“No.””
I looked at her.
“You don’t get to use that sentence anymore.””
Her eyes filled with tears.
“I made mistakes.””
“That’s not the same thing.””
“No.””
She swallowed.
“It isn’t.””
The honesty caught me off guard.
For the first time, she wasn’t defending herself.
She was admitting something.
“Tell me everything.””
She motioned toward the door.
“Inside.””
I followed.
The house smelled exactly the same.
Lavender candles.
Fresh coffee.
The scent of a place that had never changed.
But I had.
We sat at the kitchen table.
The same table where I used to do homework.
The same table where she taught me how to make her famous holiday recipes.
Now it felt like an interrogation room.
“Your father was involved in a company before he died.””
I stared at her.
“Malik told me.””
Her expression changed.
“He shouldn’t have.””
“Why?””
“Because he doesn’t know the whole story.””
“Then tell me.””
She folded her hands together.
“Your father made mistakes.””
“What kind?””
“Financial ones.””
“Everyone keeps saying that.””
“Because it’s true.””
I leaned forward.
“What kind of mistakes?””
She hesitated.
“Fraud.””
The word felt too big.
Too ugly.
“My father?””
“Yes.””
I shook my head.
“No.””
“I know that’s hard to hear.””
“No, I mean no.””
My voice cracked.
“My father wasn’t perfect. But he wasn’t that.””
She looked down.
“People are complicated, Simone.””
I hated that answer.
Because it sounded like everyone used complexity as an excuse.
“So what does this have to do with Malik?””
“After your father died, there were still unresolved accounts.””
“And?””
“And Malik found them.””
I froze.
“When?””
“Before you married him.””
The room went silent.
“Before?””
My mother nodded.
“He came to me.””
My stomach dropped.
“He came to you?””
“Yes.””
“Why?””
“He said he wanted to protect you.””
I stared.
Again.
That phrase.
“He said that?””
“Yes.””
“And you believed him?””
At first, she didn’t answer.
Then:
“Yes.””
A painful laugh escaped me.
“You both used the same words.””
“Because we thought we were doing the right thing.””
“No.””
I shook my head.
“You thought you knew better than me.””
She looked hurt.
But she didn’t argue.
Because she knew.
“What did Malik want?””
“He wanted access to the records.””
“Why?””
“To find money your father had hidden.””
“And did he?””
“No.””
The answer came quickly.
“Then why keep going?””
My mother looked away.
“Because he found something else.””
“What?””
She took a deep breath.
“Evidence.””
“Of what?””
“That someone had been moving money after your father died.””
My stomach tightened.
“Who?””
She looked at me.
“Devin’s father.””
I froze.
“What?””
“Yes.””
“No.””
“Simone.””
“No.””
Because this was too much.
Every person connected to me was suddenly part of some secret.
“Why would Devin’s father be involved?””
“I don’t know.””
“Then why are you telling me?””
“Because I think Devin knows more than he says.””
I stared at her.
“You think?””
“Yes.””
“Do you have proof?””
Silence.
That silence again.
The one everyone gave me.
The one that meant they had something.
But not enough.
“I have a file.””
“Where?””
She hesitated.
“Your father left it.””
My heartbeat increased.
“Why didn’t you give it to me?””
“Because I was afraid.””
“Of what?””
She looked at me.
“Of what would happen if you knew everything.””
I stood.
“No.””
She looked up.
“Simone.””
“I’m done.””
“Please.””
“No.””
My voice shook.
“I spent my entire life believing people hid things because they loved me.””
I grabbed my bag.
“But now I’m realizing people hide things because they want control.””
Her eyes filled.
“I’m sorry.””
I stopped.
Because I believed she was.
That was the worst part.
Everyone was sorry.
Everyone had reasons.
Everyone had regrets.
And somehow I was still the one left picking through the damage.
As I reached the door, my mother said:
“Wait.””
I turned.
She was holding a small envelope.
“You need to see this.””
I stared at it.
“What is it?””
“The original document.””
My heart stopped.
“The one with your signature?””
She nodded.
“But Simone…”
She looked terrified.
“This proves something.””
“What?””
Her voice dropped.
“It proves Malik didn’t forge your signature.””
I froze.
“What?””
She handed me the envelope.
“Because the person who signed it…”
She swallowed.
“Was you.””
My fingers tightened around the paper.
“That’s impossible.””
“I know.””
“No.””
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a document.
Old.
Official.
Real.
And at the bottom was my signature.
But this time, it looked different.
Because underneath it was a date.
A date from a year before I had ever met Malik.
I stared at it.
Unable to breathe.
Because if this was real…
If I had actually signed this…
Then the question wasn’t who forged my name.
May you like
The question was:
Why did I have no memory of ever signing it?