Chapter 7: The Certificate With My Name on It
I stared at the photograph until the letters began to blur.
It was a professional pastry certificate issued by the American Junior Culinary Association.
My name was printed across the top.
*AALIYAH BROOKS — CERTIFIED JUNIOR PASTRY ARTIST.*
Beneath it was a signature.
Gloria Brooks.
My mother.
I had never seen the certificate before.
I immediately called the number that had sent the messages.
Daniel Mercer answered after two rings.
"Aaliyah?""
"Yes. Who gave you that certificate?""
There was a brief silence.
"Can you come to the Whitmore Academy tomorrow morning? I'd rather explain everything in person.""
"Please. I need to know now.""
He sighed.
"Three years ago, your mother submitted an application for a junior pastry development program using your name.""
I sat down on the edge of my bed.
"What application?""
"The association ran a regional talent program for children between thirteen and sixteen. It included online examinations, practical assessments, and a scholarship for advanced training.""
I frowned.
"But I never took an examination.""
"According to the records, someone submitted your portfolio, completed the online assessment, and provided a signed parental authorization.""
"Who?""
"Your mother.""
My stomach tightened.
Daniel continued.
"Your application was accepted. You were ranked among the top ten young pastry candidates in the region. But the final assessment required you to attend an in-person event.""
"What happened?""
"Your mother withdrew the application.""
I stared at the certificate.
"Why?""
"She claimed you had developed a serious anxiety issue and would no longer be pursuing culinary training.""
I couldn't breathe.
I remembered being fourteen.
I remembered spending every weekend baking with an old recipe book my grandmother had given me.
I remembered asking Gloria whether I could attend a summer pastry workshop.
She'd laughed.
"You're too young to think about a career.""
I had believed her.
Daniel continued.
"But the association retained your assessment results. They recently transferred some historical records to the Whitmore Foundation. When we saw your competition application, your name caught our attention.""
"Why would my mother do that?""
"I don't know yet.""
I closed my eyes.
Then another memory surfaced.
A few months after that summer, Tessa had returned from a weekend trip carrying a beautiful pastry school brochure.
She had told everyone she was thinking about becoming a professional baker.
Gloria had spent the entire dinner praising her ambition.
I'd said nothing.
"Daniel, did Tessa ever receive training through that program?""
He paused.
"Her name appears in a separate application submitted the following year.""
My heart began pounding.
"Was it successful?""
"She received a place in the introductory program. The records show that a portion of the training costs was paid through a family-sponsored development fund.""
I felt sick.
"Was that my scholarship?""
"I can't confirm that without reviewing the financial records. But the application lists your mother as the primary contact.""
I looked at the certificate again.
My name.
My mother's signature.
A future I'd never known existed.
"Can you send me the records?""
"I can arrange an official review. But Aaliyah, please don't confront anyone until you've spoken with the foundation's safeguarding officer.""
I nodded, even though he couldn't see me.
"Thank you.""
When the call ended, I remained sitting on my bed.
I could hear Gloria moving around downstairs.
A cabinet slammed.
The television turned on.
Normal household sounds.
But suddenly, nothing about my home felt normal.
The following morning, I arrived at the Whitmore Academy with Madison.
Daniel Mercer was waiting in the reception area.
He was a tall man in his forties with dark hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and a small chocolate stain on his white chef's jacket.
He shook my hand.
"Good to finally meet you.""
"Thank you for helping me.""
He gestured toward a private office.
Inside, a woman from the foundation's safeguarding team was already waiting.
Her name was Rebecca Lane.
Daniel placed a thick file on the table.
"I've reviewed the historical application records," he said.
"There's something else you need to see.""
He opened the folder.
The first document was my old application.
The second was a withdrawal request.
The third was a financial statement.
I leaned closer.
The original junior pastry program had offered me a scholarship worth $8,000.
It covered tuition, equipment, and transportation.
I looked at Rebecca.
"Where did the money go?""
She turned the financial statement around.
"According to the records, the scholarship was never paid directly to your mother. It was transferred to an approved training provider.""
Daniel pointed to the recipient.
"Northbridge Culinary Studio.""
I recognized the name.
It was the pastry school Tessa had attended for six months.
My hands began trembling.
"She went there?""
Daniel nodded.
"Her enrollment began shortly after your application was withdrawn.""
I looked at the dates.
The first payment had been made three weeks after Gloria signed my withdrawal request.
The second payment had been made two months later.
The total was almost exactly the amount of my scholarship.
Rebecca spoke carefully.
"That doesn't automatically establish wrongdoing. We need to verify the provider's records and the terms of the original award.""
"But she used my opportunity?""
"That's what the documents appear to suggest. We are investigating.""
I stared at the file.
All those years, I'd thought I simply wasn't good enough to attend a professional school.
I'd thought my mother had refused because she didn't believe in me.
Now I was learning that someone had recognized my talent when I was fourteen.
Someone had offered me a chance.
And my mother had signed it away.
For Tessa.
Daniel sat opposite me.
"I want you to understand something. Your current fellowship is completely separate from that old award. Nobody can take it away because of what happened three years ago.""
I nodded.
Rebecca closed the file.
"There's one more person we need to speak with.""
"Who?""
She looked toward the office door.
"Your stepfather, Richard Mitchell.""
My stomach tightened.
"Why?""
"Because he was listed as a witness on the original withdrawal form.""
I stared at the signature.
Richard Mitchell.
Tessa's father.
Gloria's husband.
The man who had always seemed too busy to notice what happened inside our home.
Rebecca picked up her phone.
"We've requested that he attend an interview this afternoon.""
I swallowed.
"What if he doesn't come?""
Daniel looked at me.
"Then we'll continue through the formal review process.""
At that moment, my phone rang.
It was Richard.
I answered.
"Aaliyah, where are you?""
"At the academy.""
His voice sounded strained.
"Your mother says you've been spreading accusations about her.""
I closed my eyes.
"I'm looking at documents with my name on them.""
There was a long silence.
Then Richard asked quietly:
"Did they show you the Northbridge payment?""
My heart stopped.
"Yes.""
He exhaled.
"Then there's something I need to tell you before your mother finds out I've spoken to you.""
I gripped the phone.
"What?""
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"Your mother didn't just transfer your scholarship to Tessa. She told me you had agreed to it.""
I stared at the table.
Richard continued.
"And I signed the witness statement because I believed her.""
May you like
Then he said something that made my blood run cold.
"But last night, I found the original paperwork in her locked cabinet. Aaliyah, the signature on the withdrawal form isn't yours. She forged it.""
