My mother stormed into the pharmacy and told them I was faking my condition, saying, “I need to stop you.

Chapter 2
Thirty Four False Signatures Turned My Doubt Into Terror Overnight

Monday morning, my rheumatologist called while I sat on the edge of the bathtub trying to gather enough strength to stand. Dr. Sarah Whitmore had treated me for six years and once called me “the most compliant non-responder” on her list. This time she skipped small talk. “Maren, have you personally signed for any pharmacy collections in the last two years?”

“None. Mom collects everything.” I expected an audit triggered by Thursday’s scene. Instead, I heard keys tapping, then a pause that felt wrong. Dr. Whitmore had pulled twenty-six months of dispensing records: sixty-one collection events across four pharmacies, despite only twenty-four prescriptions from her. Thirty-four signatures were not mine. They were not even forged carefully. They were written in my mother’s familiar right-slanting hand, the same hard stroke she used in birthday cards and on household calendars.

Twelve collections could be disproved completely. On February 14, someone signed for medication in Belhaven, forty-one miles east, while I was in an infusion chair at a hospital west of home. Dr. Whitmore had my wristband record, nurse observations, and even the parking receipt I had claimed for work mileage. My first reaction was not anger. I defended my mother. Maybe the pharmacy was wrong. Maybe she collected early. Maybe she built backups because she worried the clinic would fail me. “You have to understand what she’s given up for me.”

Dr. Whitmore let me finish. Then she said, “Maren, hear the number again. Thirty-four.” I still insisted I would speak to my mother myself. That night, I waited until nine. She emerged from the kitchen at 9:06 carrying the same seven-day organizer and placed it on the sideboard. I told her to sit down. For once, she did.

She had an explanation ready before fear could even reach her face. She signed because she was the one collecting. She used other pharmacies because ours ran out. She collected early because she wanted a reserve. Then came the old soft knife: “Darling, you lose things. You know you do.” For ninety seconds, every sentence sounded plausible.

Then I said, “Belhaven. Forty-one miles. February 14. What shortage was worth an eighty-two-mile round trip?” Her expression went blank. She stared past me and said quietly, “You don’t even use them properly.” My hands started shaking. I offered her one final exit: admit it to me now, and I would keep it between us. She answered, “After everything I gave up.” Then she carried the organizer back into the kitchen and shut the door.