In this story, Claire was the beneficiary. Care was incidental.
I thought about the version of the last twelve years that existed in this story. The Claire in that version had a nice, comfortable life in her mother’s house. She worked when she felt like it. Her mother paid for things. She didn’t have to worry about rent. She’d come out ahead.
I thought about the actual twelve years. The early morning medication reminders and the three AM falls and the hours in hospital waiting rooms and the part-time work I’d taken and left and taken again around an unpredictable schedule and the dates I’d canceled and the apartment I’d given up and the job offer I hadn’t taken.
Then I thought about what I was going to do by Friday.
The will was straightforward. My mother had written it eight years ago and updated it four years ago with the help of a lawyer named Patricia Okafor whose card was still pinned to the corkboard in the kitchen. The estate — including the house — was divided equally between Daniel and me. No complications, no surprises.
Daniel’s invoice was not part of the will.
I understood this, but I wasn’t sure I understood it in a way I could explain clearly enough to matter. I called Patricia Okafor the next morning and left a message asking if she had time to speak.
Then I went to find the folder.
THE FIRST YEARS OF CARE
I moved in twelve years ago in October, when I was thirty and my mother was sixty-six.