“Manhattan Trust. Forty-Seventh Street. Don’t tell anyone.”
He relaxed then and closed his eyes. “Good girl.”
Two days later, he was gone.
I looked at the papers on the bed.
Voluntary transfer.
I could refuse to sign. I could call a lawyer. Fight this. But Vanessa had already changed the locks. I saw the new deadbolt on the front door when we came back from the funeral. She had done it while we were at the cemetery.
I picked up the pen.
Here is the thing about being sixty-eight and invisible: people underestimate you.
They see an older woman in a cheap coat and assume you are weak. They assume you will crumble, that you will beg, that you have no options.
I signed the papers. All three pages. My signature was steady.
Then I went to the closet and pulled out a small suitcase, the one I used for weekend trips to visit Robert in college. I packed two pairs of jeans, three sweaters, underwear, my nursing shoes. I do not know why I took the shoes. I just could not leave them.
I packed my Bible, the quilt my mother made me, and the photograph of Daniel and me on our wedding day. The frame was tarnished, but it was mine.
