I had been sorting the bottom drawer of Robert’s desk when the phone rang. It was the bank’s fraud department. Someone had called the previous day asking about the value of my accounts and the requirements for using a power of attorney.
The caller had said she was acting on behalf of my son.
The bank had given her no account details. Because I had recently changed the authorization on file, an employee had flagged the call and contacted me.
I asked whether the caller had given a name.
“Jennifer,” the employee said.
After we hung up, I sat without moving for several minutes.
The antiques. The investments. The nursing home. Jennifer had spoken about the house as if it were already money, but she was checking how much else I had.
I called Ellen again. Then I took a slow walk through every room to make certain the pieces I had not packed were still there.
One silver serving spoon was missing from its case.
I had no proof of when it had vanished. I wrote it down anyway.
Wednesday morning arrived cold and bright. Martha met me outside Ellen’s office, where the Hendersons waited with their attorney.
They were younger than I expected. Mrs. Henderson held a folder against her chest and said she had grown up in a house with stained glass over the front door. Her husband asked whether Robert had restored the staircase himself.
“Every spindle,” I said.
He looked impressed. “We’ll take care of it.”
I believed him. I was surprised by how much I needed to.
We reviewed the documents. Ellen walked me through the figures, the closing costs, and the date the funds would reach my account. I asked questions. I read before signing.
Then I wrote my name on the final page.
