I left Oliver with Nurse Brenda, who had been quietly kind to us all week, and drove to the bank. Mr. Whitaker met me at the door and led me past the tellers without a word. Through the glass of his office, I saw them. Mom wore her good coat. Dad held a leather folder. Vanessa sat between them, scrolling through her phone.

“They brought this,” Mr. Whitaker said, sliding a paper across his desk. It was a power of attorney, notarized, with my signature at the bottom. I had never seen it. The letters slanted the wrong way. Dad stood and said, “Tessa, sweetheart, you have been under so much stress.” Then Mr. Whitaker opened the folder, and the first page was a list in my mother’s handwriting.