She forged documents.
For years, she withdrew small amounts.
Then larger ones.
Some paid household expenses.
Some covered Brielle’s private-school tuition.
Some funded vacations I was told we “could barely afford.”
Some paid off Diane’s mortgage.
And when the trust’s security became tighter, she began using my identity instead.
The eighty-thousand-dollar birthday party hadn’t begun the fraud.
It had exposed it.
Brielle collapsed into the visitor chair.
“You told me Dad left money.”
Diane ignored her.
“You told me Natalie got more because Grandma liked her better.”
Nothing.
Brielle began to cry.
“Mom.”
I stared at my sister.
For the first time that day, she looked less like someone attacking me and more like someone waking inside a nightmare.
“Did you know?” I asked.
She shook her head frantically.
“Not all of it.”
“How much?”
“I knew Mom had accounts. I thought they were family accounts. She said your name was on them because you handled the business stuff.”
