Her name is Patricia Walsh, and she drafted my will after my husband died. She is one of those women whose calm is so complete that it changes the temperature of a conversation the moment she enters it. She has silver hair cut neatly at the jaw, clear brown eyes, and a habit of folding her hands on the desk when she listens that makes you feel neither rushed nor pitied. Her assistant scheduled me for the following Thursday.
I had made it very clear that I couldn’t lend any money that month, because I still had to put all my money and emotional strength toward the surgery I was about to undergo, and I kept thinking my daughter-in-law would be understanding and stop there. But just a few minutes later, my phone lit up with a message from her, so cold that I was left stunned, unable to believe what had just appeared before my eyes.
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