…a Dr. Harold Simms. He passed away fourteen months ago.”
The administrator, Mrs. Patel, showed me his obituary on her computer. Dr. Simms had been my family doctor for twenty years before he retired. My son, Jeff, had used his old letterhead, which he’d found among my papers, to forge a medical evaluation saying I had advanced dementia.
“We would have accepted you based on this,” Mrs. Patel said. “We trusted the signature. I’m so sorry.”
She cancelled the room reservation and reported the forged evaluation to the police and the state medical board.
My birthday was that Saturday. The movers were scheduled for nine a.m.
I didn’t cancel them. At eight-thirty, I was sitting on my front porch in my best dress, with my lawyer beside me and a police officer parked across the street. When the moving truck pulled up, followed by Jeff’s car, I waved.
My lawyer handed Jeff a copy of the police report. The movers took one look at the officer and drove away.
Jeff tried to explain that he and his wife, Carrie, were “worried” about me. I asked him why worried people forge a dead man’s signature.
I spent my seventy-fifth birthday at my own kitchen table with my two closest friends and my granddaughter, who’d driven three hours when she heard. We ate chocolate cake. It was the best surprise party I’ve ever had, mostly because I threw it myself.
