I did not cry. I sat on the edge of the bed with my hands in my lap, listening to Jason’s laughter drift down the hallway, until the door opened a few inches and Abby slipped inside. She pressed it shut and locked it. Her face was white. “Grandma, I wasn’t supposed to find this,” she whispered, pulling a folded packet from under her sweatshirt. “It was in Dad’s desk drawer, under the tax papers.”
I unfolded it with shaking fingers. The top line read Durable Power of Attorney, and my full name was typed beneath it. A yellow sticky note was pressed to the first page in my son’s handwriting. It said, “Tuesday, 10 a.m. Do NOT let her read it first.” Then Abby turned to the last page, and my blood ran cold.
