Chương 10
“What happened when she brought the papers tonight?”
Dad shifted carefully.
“She said they were documents to protect the house from being sold without my permission.”
“Did you read them?”
“I tried.”
“What stopped you?”
“She kept talking.”
That sounded like Vanessa.
“What was Daniel doing?”
“Sitting at the table.”
“Did he tell you to sign?”
Dad hesitated.
“Yes.”
My jaw tightened.
“What exactly did he say?”
“He said, ‘Dad, just sign it so we can stop fighting about this.’”
I looked at the floor.
That sentence sounded like Daniel too.
Not conspiratorial.
Not calculated.
Just impatient enough to be dangerous.
“Did you ask him what the document was?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“That it gave Vanessa permission to help with bills.”
“The same thing he told me.”
Dad nodded.
“I said I already have automatic payments.”
Despite myself, I smiled faintly.
“Of course you did.”
“I’m not helpless.”
“I know.”
His eyes lifted sharply.
“Do you?”
The question hit harder than Vanessa’s lies.
I opened my mouth.
Nothing useful came out.
Dad looked away.
“Sometimes you and Daniel both talk like I’m already ninety-five.”
“You’re seventy-three.”
“I’m aware.”
“You climbed a ladder alone last month.”
“It needed climbing.”
“You have a phone.”
“I also have legs.”
“Dad.”
He made a small dismissive motion with the hand that was not bruised.
“I know why you worry.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
His voice softened.
“Your mother died fast.”
The air left my chest.
Mom had gone from complaining about indigestion to a pancreatic cancer diagnosis in less than two weeks.
Four months after that, we buried her.
I had responded by making lists.
Medications.
Appointments.
Insurance calls.
Documents.
After she died, the lists had simply found a new target.
Dad.
He watched me absorb that.
“You think if you stay ahead of everything, nothing can surprise you again.”
I looked at him.
“That is dangerously close to a speech.”
He smiled.
“Then forget I said it.”
I laughed once.
The laugh hurt.
Dad’s expression gentled.
“I’m not asking you to stop helping.”
“I know.”
“I’m asking you not to confuse helping with deciding.”
That one I did not answer with humor.
A nurse entered carrying medication and a small cup of water.
She checked Dad’s wristband, asked his name and date of birth, then handed him two pills.
He inspected them.
“What are these?”
She explained.
He asked about side effects.
She answered.
He asked whether they would make him sleepy.
She said probably.
He looked at me.
“No driving.”
“I wasn’t going to let you.”
“There it is.”
The nurse hid a smile.
I raised my hands.
“Fine.”
He swallowed the pills.
The nurse left.
Dad settled back against the pillow.
After a minute, he said, “I didn’t sign anything tonight.”
“Good.”
“But she got angry.”
“How angry?”
“She started saying I was proving her point.”
“What point?”
“That I couldn’t follow a simple conversation.”
My fingers tightened around the coffee cup.
“And then?”
“She moved the papers closer.”
I waited.
“I pushed them away.”
“And then?”
“She said Daniel had sacrificed enough for me.”
Dad’s face changed when he said it.
Not fear.
Pain.
“What did that mean?”
“I asked the same thing.”
“What did she say?”
“That he had spent years being ignored while you and I made every decision.”
I looked away.
There were enough fragments of truth in that accusation to make it effective.
Not accurate.
Effective.
“What did Daniel do?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“He stared at the table.”
“Did he disagree with her?”
“No.”
That hurt Dad.
I could hear it.
“What happened next?”
“She told him to explain the lake house.”
I leaned forward.
“He knew you had discussed it?”
“I hadn’t.”
“Did you tell him that?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
Dad swallowed.
“He said Vanessa told him I wanted him to have it.”
“And when you said that wasn’t true?”
“He got angry.”
“At Vanessa?”
“At me.”
I sat very still.
“What did he say?”
“That I always changed the rules.”
The sentence was childish.
That made it worse.
Dad rubbed at the edge of the blanket.
“I asked him what rules.”
“He said I’d spent his whole life making promises to you and giving him leftovers.”
I closed my eyes.
There was Daniel again.
Not the man.
The wound.
“What did you say?”
“I told him that was nonsense.”
“Helpful.”
“I was angry.”
“I know.”
Dad’s mouth twitched.
“I told him the lake house was not promised to anybody.”
“That probably went well.”
“He said Vanessa had seen paperwork.”
My eyes opened.
“What paperwork?”
“He didn’t know.”
“Did Vanessa say?”
“She said it was part of my estate plan.”
Dad’s expression hardened.
“I asked where she got my estate plan.”
A chill moved across my shoulders.
“What did she say?”
“That Daniel had shown it to her.”
I stared at him.
“Did Daniel have access?”
“He had a copy of an old version.”
“How old?”
“Before your mother died.”
That mattered.
A lot.
“What did that version say about the lake house?”
Dad looked uncomfortable.
“It went to Daniel.”
I exhaled.
There it was.
A clue that could have made Vanessa’s claim sound real.
“And the current version?”
“Different.”
“How?”
“I’m not discussing my will with you in the emergency room.”
“Dad.”
“No.”
I almost pushed.
Then stopped.
That was exactly what he had just asked me not to do.
“Fine.”
He studied me.
“You hate that word when you mean it.”
“I’m practicing.”
“Poorly.”
I leaned back.
“What happened after you asked about the estate plan?”
“Vanessa said I was getting agitated.”
“And were you?”
“Yes.”
That honesty mattered.
“I raised my voice.”
“Did you threaten her?”
“No.”
“Did you touch her?”
“No.”
“Did Daniel?”
“He tried to get between us.”
“Before or after the bat?”
“Before.”
That was new.
“What happened?”
“Vanessa reached for the papers.”
Dad’s eyes narrowed as he reconstructed it.
“I put my hand over them.”
“Why?”
May you like
“I wanted to see what I was supposedly signing.”
“And?”
