My father asked quietly, “What’s the next step?”
“Neurology checks at sunrise,” Caleb answered. “If she doesn’t respond, we start the ‘quality of life’ discussion. Diane, you’ll say she always feared living dependent on machines.”
“I can cry on cue,” my mother said confidently. “I’m her mother.”
“And the documents?” my father pressed.
Caleb tapped something—paper. “Medical proxy. Durable power of attorney. Signed last month.”
Last month.
A dinner at my parents’ house flashed in my mind—Caleb sliding refinance paperwork toward me. “Just routine updates,” he’d said.
I had trusted him.
“She has company shares,” my mother whispered. “Once she’s gone, they transfer to you.”
“And the insurance,” my father added.
“Two point three million,” Caleb said. “Enough to reset everything.”
They were budgeting my death.
A new voice entered—measured and professional. “Ms. Monroe? I’m Dr. Patel.”
Caleb’s tone flipped instantly into devastation. “Doctor… is she in pain?”
“She’s stable,” Dr. Patel replied. “There’s swelling. It’s early.”
Caleb squeezed my hand—too firm, too theatrical. “She wouldn’t want to live like this.”
“We need time,” the doctor said carefully.