I felt like I was begging for scraps from my own family.
“David, I’m his grandmother. I drove fifteen hours to be here.”
“I know, and we appreciate that, but Jessica needs to recover. You understand, right?”
No, I didn’t understand.
But I agreed, because what choice did I have?
I spent two more days in that hotel room, ordering room service and watching terrible daytime television while my son and his wife bonded with my grandson in a hospital three miles away.
Friday morning came and went with no call. I finally drove to the hospital myself, determined to at least see my grandson through the nursery window.
That was when I discovered they had already been discharged.
I called David immediately.
“You took the baby home without even telling me?”
“Mom, Jessica wanted to get home to her own space. She’s been really anxious about germs and visitors.”
“I’m not a visitor, David. I’m your mother. I’m Nathan’s grandmother.”
“I know that. Look, maybe next month, when things settle down.”
Next month.
I had driven fifteen hours to see my grandson next month.
That was when I made the decision that changed everything. I hung up, packed my bags, and drove back to Phoenix. If they wanted to exclude me from Nathan’s birth, fine.
But they were about to learn that actions have consequences.
Sunday afternoon, my phone rang. The caller ID showed Denver General Hospital.
“Is this Carol Martinez?”
“Yes.”
“Ma’am, we have some paperwork issues regarding the birth of Nathan David Martinez. The insurance claim was denied, and we need to discuss payment arrangements for the delivery bill.”
My heart started pounding, but not with anxiety.
With something much more satisfying.
“I’m sorry, but I think there’s been some confusion. I’m not responsible for that bill.”
“Our records show you as the financial guarantor for Jessica Martinez’s delivery.”
And that was when I realized exactly what my dear daughter-in-law had done while I was driving across two states to be there for my grandson’s birth.
“Ma’am, according to our records, you signed financial responsibility forms for Mrs. Martinez’s delivery.”
I sat down heavily in my kitchen chair, my mind racing.
“When exactly was this form signed?”
“Let me check. It shows here that the forms were submitted electronically on November fifteenth at 11:47 p.m.”
November fifteenth.
The night I was driving through the middle of nowhere in Utah, probably somewhere near Salt Lake City, exhausted and focused on getting to Denver safely.
“And how exactly were these forms submitted?”
“Electronically through our patient portal. The signature appears to be yours, Mrs. Martinez.”
The pieces were falling into place with sickening clarity. While I was white-knuckling it through a snowstorm on I-70, desperate to reach Denver before my grandson was born, Jessica was forging my signature on financial documents.
“I need to see these forms. Can you email them to me?”
“Certainly. What email address should I use?”
Twenty minutes later, I was staring at documents that made my blood boil. Not only had Jessica forged my signature, but she had also somehow obtained my Social Security number, address, and financial information.
The forms clearly stated that I was the maternal grandmother.
Except I wasn’t the maternal grandmother. I was the paternal grandmother, and Jessica’s own mother lived in Seattle.
But the most infuriating part was the timing. These forms had been submitted while Jessica was sweet-talking me on the phone about being there for the birth, knowing full well that she planned to stick me with the bill while excluding me from actually seeing my grandson.
I called the hospital back immediately.
“This is Carol Martinez. I just reviewed the financial responsibility forms, and I need to report fraud.”
