“My lawyer.”
He tried to laugh.
It came out thin.
“Brenda, you’re exhausted.
You’ve been under stress for years.
Someone is taking advantage of you.”
I looked at the man who had spent five years teaching me every variation of his moods.
I knew when he was in pain.
I knew when he was frightened.
I knew when he was pretending not to be either.
“Her name is Ms.
Carter,” I said.
“And she doesn’t think I’m confused.”
His jaw hardened.
“What exactly have you told her?”
“Enough.”
“Enough what?”
I opened the folder wider.
Insurance documents.
Copies of the will.
Bank records.
The payment history to Thomas.
Notes I had kept about conversations and household expenses.
Steven’s eyes moved from one stack to another.
He suddenly understood that while he had been sleeping, I had been learning.
For years, he had assumed I knew nothing because I didn’t argue with him about finances.
The truth was simpler.
I had trusted him.
Trust and ignorance look similar to people who benefit from both.
“You recorded me, didn’t you?” he asked.
I didn’t answer.
His face told me the silence was enough.
“That’s illegal.”
“My lawyer knows what I have.
She knows how it was obtained.
She’ll decide what can be used and where.”
I had learned that sentence from her because she had warned me not to play lawyer myself.
Preserve everything, she had told me.
Don’t alter anything.
Don’t threaten him with things you don’t understand.
Don’t move money that isn’t yours.
Don’t sign anything.
And stop behaving as though his comfort gives him control over your legal rights.
That final sentence had followed me home.
Steven looked toward the kitchen.
“I need my dinner.”
For a second, I thought I had misheard him.
Then I realized he was testing the old arrangement.
He wanted to see whether saying the familiar words would make the familiar Brenda appear.
I stood.
His shoulders relaxed.
Then I picked up my purse.
“A professional caregiver is coming tonight.”
His head snapped toward me.
“What?”
“Your care is being transferred to professionals.”
