Another folder.
Another timestamp.
Another piece of evidence.
Whoever was trying to access my finances clearly believed they already knew enough about me.
Old birthdays.
Childhood pets.
Favorite teachers.
Every security question reflected someone who thought family memories still unlocked my life.
They didn’t.
I had changed every answer years ago.
My favorite pet?
“FederalRegulation42.”
Mother’s maiden name?
“Unauthorized.”
Favorite vacation?
“NotYourBusiness.”
Security experts recommended random answers.
I had followed that advice religiously.
Saturday arrived with an invitation I had not expected.
My aunt Lorraine called.
“Your parents are having a family barbecue tomorrow.”
“I wasn’t invited.”
She hesitated.
“They assumed you’d come.”
“I won’t.”
“You should know they’re planning some kind of intervention.”
I nearly dropped the phone.
“For what?”
“They think you’ve become… vindictive.”
I thanked her and hung up.
An intervention.
Because I had protected my own bank account.
Sunday afternoon, while they gathered without me, another notification appeared.
A purchase attempt.
Three hundred eighty-nine dollars.
Bridal accessories.
Declined.
Four minutes later—
Eight hundred seventy-two dollars.
Luxury florist.
Declined.
Then—
Two thousand one hundred dollars.
Wedding photographer.
Declined.
Each attempt used a different merchant.
