“This is Dr. Raymond Voss. An old friend of your father’s. We thought it might help you talk to someone after everything.”
Dr. Voss shook my hand.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Fay. Your parents are very concerned.”
We sat in the den.
My mother stayed on the love seat beside me like a chaperone.
Voss opened a leather notebook.
“Do you find it difficult to make decisions right now?”
“No.”
“Do you feel detached from reality?”
“No.”
“Are you having trouble understanding financial matters?”
“No.”
Each question was dressed like concern.
Each one had teeth.
I had spent half the night reading about temporary guardianship on my phone. I knew what he was building.
Not care.
A file.
A reason.
I came home from the funeral to tell my parents and sister that my husband had left me $8.5M and six Manhattan lofts.
