I had spent days imagining Stuart arriving with a doctor and taking my keys. Hearing Ellen speak so plainly did not erase my fear, but it gave the fear edges.
We prepared a revocation. Ellen explained whom she would notify and what records we should check. She advised me to tell my doctors that I had changed my agent, and to make sure my financial institutions had the new document.
Then she asked whom I trusted to make decisions if I truly could not.
For years, my answer had been Stuart.
I stared at the blank line on the form.
“I need time,” I said.
“Take it. We can finish the revocation today.”
I signed my name. My hand was steady until I reached the final letter.
Ellen offered me a copy. I folded it into my purse, beside the Cedar Grove brochure.
“Selling the house is your decision,” she said. “I want to make sure you aren’t making it because you feel driven out.”
I thought of Robert climbing a ladder to polish the stained glass. I thought of the Thanksgiving table. Both memories belonged to the house, and neither canceled the other.
“I’ve been considering moving for longer than Stuart knows,” I said. “I just hadn’t admitted it to myself.”
That was true. Since Robert died, I had closed doors to rooms I no longer used. The gutters needed repair. Every winter, I worried about the front steps icing over. I loved the house. I was also tired of asking it to stand in for my husband.
