“I understand,” I said.
Warren sighed. “All right. I’ll draft the trust documents. We’ll need to fund the trust—transfer the assets into the trust’s name—before you pass. That’s critical. If the assets aren’t in the trust, they’ll go through probate.”
“How long will it take?” my husband asked.
“One week to draft,” Warren said. “Another week to transfer assets. We should start immediately.”
We spent the next two weeks working with Warren. Bank accounts. Investment portfolios. Stocks. Bonds. Everything designated for the daughters was transferred into the trust.
The house and the cabin stayed in our joint names. Those would pass directly to me as surviving spouse. No probate needed.
The trust was fully funded three days before my husband died.
Four days after the funeral, I stood in my living room holding the stack of twenty-five envelopes. I hadn’t opened any of them. My husband had told me not to. Not until the daughters were all together.
I picked up my phone. It was time to call my daughters. But before I made that call, I needed to remember why.
During those six weeks, our daughters visited five times.
I counted.
Visit one: Naomi.
She flew in from New York on a Tuesday, stayed two hours, sat in the living room talking about work the entire time—her tech company, a merger, board problems. She didn’t ask how her father was feeling. Didn’t ask if he was in pain.
When I suggested she go upstairs, she stood in his doorway for three minutes.
“Hi, Dad. How are you?” she said.
She didn’t wait for an answer.
“I have a Zoom call in twenty minutes,” she said. “I should go.”
She left. She didn’t hug me goodbye.
Visit two: Rosalind.
She drove from Chicago the following week, brought her laptop, set it up on the dining table, and worked the entire time. I sat in the living room listening to her type.
Click, click, click.
After an hour, I asked, “Don’t you want to see your father?”
“I’m busy, Mom,” she said. “I can’t stay long.”
She never went upstairs. After ninety minutes, she packed up and left.
Visit three: Celeste.
She flew in from Seattle. She’s a doctor, so she examined him—went straight to his bedroom, checked his pulse, listened to his breathing, looked at his medication list. She spoke to him like a patient, not her father.
“Your vitals are stable,” she said. “The hospice nurse is doing a good job.”
She didn’t sit with him. Didn’t hold his hand. Didn’t say, “I love you.”
After ninety minutes, she came downstairs.
“He’s comfortable,” she said. “That’s all we can hope for.”
Then she left to catch her flight.
Visit four: Violet.
She drove up from Austin, brought an interior design catalog. We sat in the kitchen while she flipped through pages, showing me color swatches.
“Mom,” she said, casual, “when he passes, can I redecorate the house? The living room could really use an update.”
I stared at her. “What?”
She shrugged. I didn’t answer. I got up and walked out.
She left an hour later.
Visit five: Aurelia.
She arrived from Portland three hours late. I smelled the wine when she walked in.
“Sorry,” she said. “Traffic.”
There’s no traffic between Portland and Asheville—just a flight.
She went upstairs, sat beside his bed. Within ten minutes, she was asleep in the chair.
I let her sleep for an hour, then woke her.
“You should go,” I said.
She nodded. On her way out, she hugged me.
“Mom,” she said, “I’m doing really well. I have a gallery show in New York next month.”
I knew it wasn’t true. There was no gallery show. There hadn’t been one in three years.
“That’s wonderful, sweetheart,” I said.
She left.
Harrison didn’t say much during any of the visits. He lay in bed, watched them come and go, stayed quiet.
After Aurelia left, I went upstairs. Harrison was awake, staring at the ceiling. I sat on the edge of the bed.
“You were right,” he whispered. “They don’t care.”
I took his hand. “Then we’ll make them care,” I said.
He looked at me—tired eyes, but determined. “You really think the letters will work?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But we have to try.”
continued on next page
For complete cooking times, go to the next page or click the Open button (>), and don't forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.
