# The Letter That Wasn't Mine

> Six weeks. Fourteen emails. Zero replies.

By MCAFax · Published September 29, 2026 · Updated October 2, 2026
Section: Markets & Main Street › Small Business · Series: Confessions (https://mcafax.com/notebook/series/confessions)
Canonical: https://mcafax.com/notebook/she-wrote-once
Source: MCAFax, The Broker's Notebook (https://mcafax.com/notebook). MCAFax is not a lender or a law firm.

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Six weeks. Fourteen emails. Zero replies.

That was my record with one hospital records office, chasing a single document my partner needed for her insurance claim. I wrote polite. I wrote firm. I wrote with bullet points and dates in bold. I wrote with her ID attached.

Silence.

Then she wrote once.

Not as a CC. Not "following up on my partner's request." She wrote as herself, the patient, the person the document belonged to, with one clear sentence asking for her own records.

They replied before lunch. With the papers attached, like they'd been sitting in a drawer the whole time waiting for the right person to knock.

That same afternoon she forwarded them to the insurer and ended a chase I'd been running since late summer.

I was happy. I was also quietly crushed. Six weeks of my letters, and the most useful thing I could have done was step aside.

I should have known. I watched this exact thing happen at the funding shop more times than I can count.

Brokers love to be the middleman on everything. It makes us feel essential. A merchant needs a payoff letter from an old lender? The broker calls. A merchant needs a corrected statement from the bank? The broker emails. We'd chase on their behalf for days, sometimes weeks, and get nowhere.

One afternoon, a manager at a lender told me flat out why. "We can't talk to you about his account. You're not him. Have him call."

So I did. I got the merchant, a guy who owned a body shop, on the phone, and asked him to call his old lender himself. He was annoyed. "Isn't that your job?"

He called anyway. Eleven minutes later he called me back. "They're sending it now. The lady was nice. She asked how my kids were."

Eleven minutes, after nine days of me.

Some doors only open for the person whose name is on them.

That night, I went back through my sent folder and counted. Fourteen letters to that hospital. Every one signed with my name. Every one about someone else's records.

My own hand had sent exactly one email that day. Not to the hospital. To a skating rink, asking about adult beginner classes. Something I wanted, for me, in my own name.

That one got answered too.

I closed the laptop and found my partner in the kitchen. I told her she'd done in one email what I couldn't in fourteen.

She didn't look up from the stove.

"You should have just asked me," she said.

*Confessions is a series of stories from inside the MCA world. Names and details are changed, and some are dramatized.*