She did not.
She began listing all the ways I made planning difficult. I asked too many questions. I changed my mind. I minimized risk. I refused to discuss the possibility that the house was too much for me.
Every complaint had one thing in common.
I had not obeyed quickly enough.
Janet slid a blank pad toward me.
“Mrs. Parker, would you like copies of everything Rosewood received?”
“Yes.”
Melissa objected.
Janet ignored her.
I left Rosewood with a thick envelope, my own purse, and a bruise of humiliation that had nothing to do with the tray Melissa knocked onto the floor.
I did not ride home with them.
I called a car from the lobby and watched Daniel stand beside Melissa through the glass doors while I left.
Neither followed me.
The house looked exactly the same when I returned.
That frightened me more than if a FOR SALE sign had been standing in the yard.
The porch chair was where I left it. The curtains were open. My mailbox held two catalogs and a utility bill. Nothing visible announced that other people had been discussing the price of my home while I was still living inside it.
I locked the door and spread the Rosewood papers across my dining table.
The application contained enough information to make me feel exposed.
My medications.
My doctor’s name.
The date of my fall.
My son’s contact information.
My emergency preferences.
Most of it Daniel knew. Some of it Melissa could have found in the health folder I kept in a kitchen drawer for emergencies.
At the bottom sat the false signature.
I photographed every page.
Then I called the realtor Daniel had finally named before I left Rosewood.
Her name was Rebecca Sloan.
When I introduced myself, she went silent.
“Mrs. Parker,” she said carefully, “I was told your son had authorization to discuss the property.”
