I open the folder, expecting there to be a withdrawal initiation form. I’ve never done one before, but I remember that being Step One of the process as explained by my assigned bereavement banker. There are no helpful papers in the folder, so I log on to the bank’s website to initiate a digital check instead. I’ve never done this before either, but I’m in the business of user experience and can figure out how their website works.

When I look at the sum of the account, it seems to be off by about ten thousand dollars. I think back to when I got all the policy stuff from the bank and try to remember if I ever made a withdrawal one drunken night when I was grieving like crazy, but I understand myself well enough to know that’s impossible. It’s time to call the 24/7 800 number.

After taking several minutes to verify who I am and what I want through a series of Social Security numbers, pin numbers, maiden names, and so on and so forth, I’m finally on the line with a real-life representative.

“Okay, ma’am. I see it here. The withdrawal form was made out to Cash in the sum of ten thousand dollars.”

I almost laugh at the absurdity. “That just can’t be right.”

“It’s been the only account activity thus far.”

“When was it?”

“Let’s see here... In the September after your husband passed. I can certainly transfer you to Loss Prevention if you think it’s an error, but I’m almost certain the claim would fall outside of the statute of limitations by this point since it’s been almost five years and you haven’t reported any suspicious activity on the account. Have you been checking your statements regularly?”

Whenever I get mail from the life insurance bank, I toss it in the garbage. I know that sounds irresponsible of me, but I also know I haven’t made any changes to the account since it was opened. So what’s the point of engaging with monthly reminders of my husband’s death if these documents aren’t telling me something I don’t already know?

“Is it possible for me to download a copy of the withdrawal form you’re talking about?” I ask the account rep.

She walks me through where on the website I can download the form and I thank her for her time. My computer dings, indicating that the download has completed. When the PDF finally opens on my monitor, I see the form made out to Cash, clear as day, signed with my name just as the rep said.

Except the handwriting is most certainly not mine.

My head is spinning as fast as my heart is racing. It’s time to call my go-to guy for shit hitting the fan: Brian. His phone rings twice then cuts to voice mail, which tells me it’s not dead—he’s just not answering. He’s probably just—

With a patient. Everything OK? he texts.

My fingers start to dance over my keyboard as I type and delete all the different ways to tell him that someone stole a cool ten grand from me because I wasn’t emotionally equipped to open my mail, let alone dispose of it properly.