“That seat belongs to Daniel now,” she said. “We’re reorganizing the energy of the house.”
Apparently she had been reading articles about corporate feng shui. According to her, the head of the household needed to sit facing the east window for prosperity.
She told me to sit on a broken chair instead.
Then she slid a brochure across the table.
The cover showed smiling elderly couples in bright rooms.
“Sunrise Haven Retirement Residence.”
She explained they were worried about my safety. Managing such a large property was too difficult at my age—stairs, ice in the winter, distance from the hospital.
The brochure described nurses, heated floors, and organized activities.
But I knew the place.
It wasn’t luxury.
It was where forgotten people quietly waited to die.
They weren’t offering care.
They were getting rid of me.
I agreed to go.
But I asked for one week to pack my wife’s belongings.
Seven days.
Olivia agreed without hesitation.
She thought she had already won.
What she didn’t understand was that a week was more than enough time.
Hidden beneath the attic floorboards was a small metal lockbox.
Inside it was a legal folder labeled:
“Margaret Whitmore Revocable Living Trust.”