“A conservatorship would allow Julian to handle the sale of the house and secure your place at the Shady Pines community,” Beatrice said, tapping her phone screen.
Julian looked down at his shoes, his face flushed.
“Do you believe I am incompetent, Beatrice?” I asked.
“I believe your memory is failing, and your obsession with these fictional vandals proves you cannot live alone,” Beatrice said, her voice flat and hard.
I stood up, my knees stiff from the low sofa. “My memory is quite intact.”
“The court may see it differently when we present the inspector’s preliminary report,” Beatrice said.
The gravel in Julian’s driveway was damp under the headlights of my sedan. Julian walked me to the driver’s side, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
“Julian,” I said, stopping by the car door.
“Mother, please,” he said, staring at the gravel. “Beatrice is just stressed about the loan.”
“Do you truly believe I am losing my mind?” I asked.
He rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes darting toward the glowing windows of the house. He did not look at me.
“It is just… you have been so focused on the car glass,” he said.
“There are footprints on my windshield every morning, Julian,” I said. “They are real.”
“I have to go back inside,” he said, turning toward the porch.
The drive home was quiet, the Douglas firs looming high on either side of the narrow road.
The kitchen was cold when I entered. The hum of the thirty-year-old refrigerator was the only sound in the house.
I stood at the sink, washing the plastic containers Beatrice had sent back with me. The water was hot, rising in steam against the dark window pane.
My chest felt tight, and the tears came quietly, slipping down my cheeks as I rinsed the soap away. I did not dry them.
I turned off the faucet and walked over to the kitchen table.
The yellow legal notepad lay open in the dim light, its blank pages waiting for the facts I still had to find.
I turned off the kitchen light, leaving the yellow legal
