I asked what he meant by “calls after late fees now” because Melissa hasn’t paid a bill for me in her life.
The manager rubbed the back of his neck and said he probably explained it badly. Then he started talking too fast about account convenience settings and emergency access in case “something happened.”
Something happened to who.
My husband Richard handled the storage payments before he died, but after that I switched everything into my own name. I remember sitting in that same office three summers ago while the manager showed me how to use the autopay screen because I still carried a checkbook everywhere.
He knew that.
That’s why the next part felt strange.
He kept talking to me carefully. Slower than normal. Like people do with customers who are upset at pharmacies.
I looked back at the page again.
Under access history, Melissa’s number appeared beside six different gate entries over the last two months. Tuesday mornings mostly. A couple Thursday evenings.
I was in Florida with my sister for one of those weeks.
The manager must’ve noticed me counting dates because he quietly said, “She told us you didn’t like coming out here alone anymore.”
I never said that.
Outside, somebody slammed a trailer hitch hard enough that the fence rattled. The manager reached again for the paperwork but stopped when I turned the page over first.
There was another form clipped underneath.
Estate transition authorization.
My name was still there.
But someone had already highlighted where I was supposed to sign.