The chicken was half seasoned when the text arrived at 5:48. Back room at Brannigan Steakhouse, seven o’clock, don’t be late. No greeting. Curtis had been pricing me for months, asking about my accounts, my insurance, the cabin, whether a woman my age should still be running payroll on four laundromats. So I put the meat in the refrigerator, changed into dark slacks and a navy blouse, and sent one message to a person my son did not know existed. Then I drove there and arrived three minutes early, because early is not manners, it is reconnaissance.

No menus. No bread. Curtis at the head, Danika beside him, her parents opposite, and Weston Clay at the far end with a leather folder full of deed transfers, a holding company, powers of attorney, and conservatorship papers. Glen told me I could stay in my house as long as things went smoothly. Stay, not own. When I asked why we were not doing this at my attorney’s office, Weston said privacy helps sensitive family transitions, and I told him privacy helps when you do not want witnesses. Then my son leaned across the table and said sign or we will ruin you, and told me exactly how, and nobody at that table said a word against it. He looked around and told me I was outnumbered. I said I had only brought one.