I Was Still Away Recovering When My Children Talked About Their “Early Plans” And Selling Everything From The TV To The Beach House. But The Shock Came When The Notary’s Office Called To Inform Them: “The Property Has An Owner – And It’s Not ANYONE IN THE FAMILY.”

Patel examined me and expressed pleased surprise at my progress, Jenny returned with a hospital phone. “Your doctor approved a short call,” she said, positioning the phone against my ear while holding it for me. “Do you remember the number?”

I did.

I’d memorized Harold Winter’s number decades ago when he’d first helped Richard and me draft our wills. My fingers couldn’t manage dialing yet, so Jenny input the number as I laboriously recited each digit. Harold answered on the third ring.

“Winter Legal Associates.”

“Harold,” I managed, my voice a rasp. “Victoria Sullivan.”

A pause. “Victoria.

My God. I heard you were unresponsive. Are you all right?”

“Medical episode,” I confirmed.

“Getting better. Need help. Emergency.”

“Of course.

Anything,” he replied immediately. His voice softened. “I’ve known you and Richard for thirty years.

Whatever you need.”

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