numbers were stable.
Not perfect.
But stable.
After months of anxiety, that word felt miraculous.
The doctor gave one warning.
“She needs less stress.”
Mom glanced at me.
I knew exactly what she was thinking.
So did she.
Later, while Mr. Bellamy went downstairs for coffee, Mom and I sat beneath fluorescent lights in the waiting room.
She was unusually quiet.
She kept opening and closing her purse.
Finally, she spoke.
“David.”
“Yeah?”
“I think it’s time Harold reviews the trust.”
I turned toward her.
Harold Stein had been my parents’ attorney for more than thirty years.
After Dad died, Harold helped Mom organize everything—her house, savings, investments, insurance policies, and the family trust Dad had created.
“Why?”
Mom pulled out a folded bank statement.
Several lines were highlighted yellow.
Three names stood out immediately.
VANESSA COLE.
My wife.
I frowned.
“What is this?”
“I hoped I was mistaken.”
“About
