I was an eighth grader at Thompson Junior High School in Bakersfield, CA and my youngest brother was preparing to make his appearance into the world any day. For some reason long forgotten I had signed up to volunteer at the nursing home up the street.
I nervously watched The Woman across the desk eyeing the note with my mother’s name signed at the bottom giving me permission to be tested for T.B., a requirement before I began my volunteer work.
“Your mother wrote this?” Each word dripped with suspicion.
“Yes ma’am.” I lied.
I watched her hand reach for the phone and squeaked out my phone number when she requested it. I held my breath as she explained to my mom who she was and why she was calling.
When she smugly said “That’s what I thought” I found my voice and asked her to allow me to talk to my mom.
“Mom,” I began. “Don’t you remember? I wrote the note and asked you to sign it . . . no, you didn’t actually write it, you just signed it.” It didn’t take much to bully her into believing that she had signed the note and just forgotten about it. I felt evil and manipulative as I handed the receiver back to The Woman. She wasn’t fooled, she knew exactly what she had just witnessed, but with mom on the other end of the phone backing up my story, there was nothing she could do about it.
I continued the charade when I came home and told my mom that she must have forgotten signing the note because she had so much on her mind, what with the new baby on its way and dad working so much. Then I went to my room and didn’t come out all night.
I didn’t miss a single week at the nursing home until I finally had to quit a year later because we were moving.
I never forged my mother’s signature again.
The End
P.S. I have apologized to my mom for this, and she says I am forgiven.
