“What are you doing?”
“Calling Emily.”
“You don’t need to bother her.”
“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t.”
David pushed back his chair.
“Mom, put the phone away.”
His tone had changed.
It was no longer amused.
It was commanding.
I looked from my son to his wife.
Then I noticed something beside Brooke’s plate.
A cream-colored folder.
My name was printed across the top.
HELEN MERCER.
Beneath it, in smaller letters, were the words PROPERTY MANAGEMENT AND CARE AUTHORIZATION.
I felt the air leave my chest.
Three weeks earlier, David had told me he wanted to help manage my finances.
He said I was getting older.
He said large houses were dangerous for elderly women living alone.
He said Arthur would want me to make things easier for the family.
What he never mentioned was that Brooke had already contacted an assisted-living facility.
Or that they had invited an estate-planning consultant to visit the following Monday.
Or that they intended to sell my house.
The house Arthur and I had purchased forty-six years earlier.
The house where David took his first steps.
The house where Arthur spent his final Christmas sitting beside the fireplace, too weak to stand but determined to watch our granddaughter open her presents.
I stared at the folder.
“What is that?”
Brooke followed my gaze.
For the first time all evening, she looked nervous.
