Except it wasn’t.
My sister had forged my name.
I stood there in my kitchen, envelope in hand, shaking with a mix of rage and disbelief.
She didn’t even try to hide it.
She’d literally taken one of the forms from when I closed on the house 2 years ago, traced the signature, and sent it in.
I called her right away.
“Hey,” she said, sounding way too cheerful for someone who had just committed fraud.
“Cut the act,” I said coldly. “Did you forge my signature?”
There was a pause, then an annoyed sigh.
“Oh my gosh, Evan, you’re being dramatic. It was just paperwork. We were trying to speed up the process before the market drops.”
“We?”
“Mom and Dad know,” she said defensively. “They said it was fine. You were dragging your feet, and I can’t be homeless when the baby comes.”
I actually laughed.
A hollow stunn laugh.
“You just committed a crime, and your defense is the market might drop. Do you realize how insane that is?”
“You’re overreacting,” she said, her tone snapping from fake sweet to annoyed. “You should be thanking me for helping you do what’s right. This way, we can all move on faster.”
That was the last straw.
“Move on faster,” I said, my voice low. “You have no idea what’s coming next. Don’t call me. Don’t text me. And don’t set foot on my property again.”
I hung up, shaking.
Not with fear this time, but with something sharper.
The next morning, I met with my lawyer.
We drafted a cease and desist letter explicitly stating that no one was authorized to act on my behalf regarding the sale or transfer of my property.
We filed it with the county and attached copies of my real signature for verification.
Then I had my lawyer prepare a restraining order, not just against my sister, but also a no-trespass notice that legally barred anyone in my family from contacting realtors or stepping foot on my property without my permission.
It wasn’t cheap.