Mom continued posting photographs from Darren’s patio.
Easter dinner.
Family birthdays.
Mother’s Day brunch.
Every celebration seemed to take place on the concrete my crew had poured.
I saw the pictures occasionally.
I didn’t comment.
Then Darren sent me a photograph of a thin line along one of the patio’s control joints.
“Patio’s cracking. Pretty sure I don’t owe full price for defective work.”
I studied the photograph.
The line was exactly where we’d designed the joint to manage normal movement.
I explained that.
He argued.
Then demanded that I come inspect it before discussing payment.
I replied that any legitimate warranty concern could be addressed through the contract and documented inspection process, but the outstanding invoice still needed resolution.
He didn’t answer.
A few months later, Dad visited one of my job sites.
I was finishing a garage floor outside Spencerville.
He arrived carrying two coffees.
For a while, he stood beside the forms watching Dutch work.
Then he handed me a cup.
“Your mother says things have gotten difficult.”
I nodded.
“They have.”
He looked toward the concrete.
Then said, “She told me you agreed to do Darren’s driveway as a family favor.”
I stopped moving.
“What?”
Dad looked toward me.
“That’s what she said.”
For a moment, I couldn’t speak.
Then I set down the tool in my hand.
“Dad, Darren signed a contract for thirty-one thousand four hundred dollars.”
His expression changed.
I continued.
“Mom told me the bank had renovation money set aside. She gave me the amount before I prepared the estimate.”
He stared.
Then looked toward Dutch.
Dutch slowly shook his head.
Dad looked back at me.
For the first time, I saw genuine uncertainty on his face.
“I didn’t know that.”
I took a breath.
“You could have asked.”
He looked down.
For a long moment, nobody spoke.
Then he nodded.
“You’re right.”
He finished his coffee.
Stood beside the forms a little longer.
Then drove away.
I didn’t know whether he confronted Mom afterward.
He never told me.
But he stopped repeating her version.
That was something.
Nearly a year after the housewarming, Darren called again.
His tone was unusually friendly.
“Hey, little brother. How’s business?”
I looked toward the work schedule.
“Busy.”
He congratulated me on buying a used skid steer.
Asked whether Dutch was still working.
Then finally explained why he’d called.
He and Melissa were refinancing their house.
Interest rates had become more favorable.
They hoped to reduce their monthly payment.
But the title company had identified my lien.
The refinance couldn’t proceed without addressing it.
For a moment, I felt the quiet satisfaction of knowing the paperwork was doing exactly what it was designed to do.
Darren continued.
“Since it’s been a year, I figured we could put this behind us.”
I waited.
He asked me to release the lien first.
Promised he’d pay afterward.
I took a slow breath.
“No.”
His voice changed.
“Curtis.”
I remained calm.
“The payment can be arranged through closing. The title company can coordinate settlement of the lien and the release.”
He hesitated.
“That complicates things.”
I looked toward my truck.
“Not nearly as much as working for a year without payment.”
He became quiet.
Then said something that made me uneasy.
“I really didn’t want to do it this way.”
I frowned.
“Do what?”
He didn’t answer.
Then he hung up.
A few days later, the lawyer’s letter arrived.
The one claiming I’d signed a full payment waiver.
The one bearing my supposed signature.
And my mother’s notary stamp.
I was sitting on the tailgate when I called Lois.
She listened while I explained.
Then asked me to read the notarial certificate.
I did.
She asked for the commission number.
I gave it to her.
Then she was quiet.
For a moment, I thought the call had disconnected.
Finally, she said.
“Curtis, don’t contact your brother or your mother about this yet.”
I swallowed.
“Okay.”
“Bring the original letter, the enclosure, and your August folder to my office.”
I looked toward the forged signature.
Then toward the date.
August fourteenth.
I turned to the corresponding page in my folder.
That day, I had been working at a furniture warehouse in Columbus.
Ninety miles away.
I had a job ticket signed by the warehouse manager.
A fuel receipt from early that morning.
A delivery record.
And a photograph taken during the afternoon showing Dutch and Skip beside the finished loading area.
I wasn’t in Lima.
I hadn’t appeared before my mother.
And I hadn’t signed a waiver.
I took a slow breath.
Then told Lois what I’d found.
For a moment, she was silent.
Then she said.
“Good. Bring everything.”
The following morning, Lois examined the documents carefully.
She compared the dates.
Checked the project records.
Reviewed the purported waiver.
Then looked toward me.
“Do you recognize this signature?”
I shook my head.
“No.”
She studied it again.
“And you were in Columbus all day?”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
She turned toward the job ticket.
For several moments, she was quiet.
Then she asked whether anyone else knew what had happened with the renovation funds.
I thought about Mom.
Darren.
Melissa.
Then I remembered Aunt Joyce.
My mother’s younger sister.
The person who had been supposed to receive that accidental voice message.
A year earlier, Joyce had sent me a strange text.
“Your mother told me about the message. I’m sorry, honey. She sent me worse.”
I’d asked what she meant.
Joyce hadn’t answered.
The next day, she’d changed the subject.
At the time, I assumed she simply didn’t want to get involved.
Now I wasn’t so sure.
I told Lois.