“Isabela, mija, this has gone too far,” she says, as if you are both discussing a seating dispute at a baptism. “Diego told me you’re upset about some misunderstanding with the accounts. You know how paperwork is. Sometimes the bank puts things in a spouse’s name automatically.” You close your eyes for one second, not from weakness, but to enjoy the precision of her lie. Automatic. As if signatures forge themselves when mothers need saving.
“You used my name,” you say.