Measurements.
Notes.
A printed discharge summary.
You place it in the folder Mr. Thompson gives you when you arrive at his office afterward.
The folder is not Jason’s.
It is your father’s.
Inside is the will, the trust agreement, insurance documents, property deeds, bank summaries, and a handwritten letter addressed to you.
Your hands tremble when Mr. Thompson slides it across the desk.
“He wrote this six months ago,” he says. “After your mother’s first hospitalization.”
You stare at your father’s handwriting.
Strong.
Slightly crooked.
Familiar enough to hurt.
You open the envelope.
My Liv,
That is as far as you get before crying again.
Aunt Ruth sits beside you and waits.
When you can breathe, you keep reading.
If you are reading this, your mother and I are gone, and I am sorry for leaving you with grief and paperwork at the same time. I know Jason has hurt you more than you have admitted. I know because I watched your smile get smaller every year. I know because the roof leaked and he did not come. I know because when your mother was sick, you sat alone in the hospital waiting room while he was somewhere else.
You cover your mouth.
