Part 5

The current value was a little over forty million dollars. I held the cup with both hands. I’d known there were substantial assets. Knowing the number didn’t feel like becoming someone new. It felt like being given responsibility at a moment when I could barely decide what to eat. The Evanston house belonged to Helen LLC, an entity held within the family trust. Barbara showed me the ownership records. Paul had no title interest. “I’ll need family-law advice,” I said. She nodded and explained that the trust documents and financial history would need proper review. We weren’t going to substitute a confident sentence for a legal analysis. Then she brought out a memo. Paul had called the firm months earlier, while Mom was receiving treatment. He’d said I was too distressed to handle planning and asked about hidden assets, insurance, and inheritance arrangements. The associate had disclosed nothing. I read the date twice. I remembered that period: the cot beside Mom’s bed, spare clothes in my car, the way my whole body seemed to smell of hospital soap. He’d been asking how much she was worth. I couldn’t know every thought behind the call. But it was difficult to reconcile his questions with the concern he claimed to feel. “Why wasn’t I told?” Barbara explained that the inquiry had been refused and documented. There had been no disclosure or authority granted. I wished I’d known anyway. I told her about Jessica, the ring, the rental listing, and the statements. She listened, then asked me to send the records securely. We completed the succession paperwork. She emphasized keeping trust property separate from marital accounts while the lawyers reviewed everything. I wasn’t to empty our savings or assume every disputed expense would automatically be awarded back to me. I appreciated the caution. Paul had already supplied enough certainty for one household. Before I left, Barbara asked whether I wanted a few minutes. I said I did. She went to speak with her assistant, and I sat alone until I could pick up my bag without fumbling. Afterward, I opened an individual account and redirected future paychecks. The credit arrangements took several calls. I asked the issuers to end my support for future spending wherever the account terms allowed and completed the required steps to separate our credit. Existing obligations didn’t disappear. The remaining accounts and limits would be assessed on Paul’s circumstances. I kept the confirmations. At home, I made chicken with rosemary because chopping vegetables gave the afternoon a sequence I could follow. Paul came into the kitchen. Work was exhausting. The regional director was demanding. Our bank balance was worrying. “We need to be realistic.” I stirred the pan. “Yes,” I said. “We do.” On Saturday, Jessica returned with a portfolio of supposedly urgent reports. The ring was still on her finger. I invited her inside and offered water. It wasn’t serenity. I needed to see what she would do when nobody gave her the argument she seemed prepared to manage. She admired the house as “cozy,” then offered the number of an estate-liquidation service. Apparently, Paul had told her I might need to simplify. I looked at her hand. “That belonged to my mother.” She glanced down. “Paul said it was a gift.” “I know what he did.” Her smile became uncertain. Before either of us said more, Paul appeared and hurried her toward the door. Their low voices followed them into the hallway. I put her glass in the dishwasher. Outside, in my car, I texted Barbara. Jessica was still wearing the ring. I wanted its ownership and appraisal documents ready. Paul arranged a family discussion for Sunday evening. His sister Sarah arrived with her husband, Greg, carrying wine nobody opened. They settled on the sofa while Paul took his usual armchair. I sat opposite.