Chapter 2

Patrick said nothing on the drive home.

He kept exactly to the speed limit and signaled before every turn. Anger always made him careful. It left me looking like the unreasonable one.

As soon as the garage door opened, I saw my desk.

It had been wedged beside the lawn mower under an old drop cloth. Three boxes stood against the wall, each labeled RACHEL’S OFFICE.

“When did you move it?”

Patrick unfastened his seat belt. “Yesterday.”

“The day before your father’s funeral?”

“I asked two men from church to help. Don’t make it sound like I threw your things away.”

I lifted the cloth. A fresh scrape marked one corner. Several client folders had been folded to fit inside a box.

Six years ago, I had managed the books for twelve small businesses from that desk. After Frank’s first fall, I told my clients I needed three months off.

Three months became six years.

Patrick walked past me. “Everything is still here.”

“So I should thank you?”

“It’s been a long day, Rachel.”

The downstairs room had served as both my office and our guest room.

Now the filing cabinet and printer were gone. Clean sheets covered the bed, and empty hangers filled the closet.

Patrick had added a nonslip bath mat, a pill organizer, and Evelyn’s usual toiletries.

A medication list sat on the nightstand. My name and number appeared under Emergency Contact.

“Did you fill this out?”

Patrick draped his jacket over a chair and loosened his tie. “Someone has to be responsible after Mom moves in. Your number makes the most sense.”

“For whom?”

“Everyone.”

“Except me.”

He opened the refrigerator, then took out a bottle of water. “You’re exhausted. Once the funeral is behind us, you’ll see this isn’t as overwhelming as you’re making it.”

“How long have you been planning this?”

“Not long.”

“Patrick.”

“A few weeks.” He opened the water. “Dad was getting worse. I had to think about what would happen to Mom.”

“You could have asked me.”

“You were running between the hospital and the house every day. Why give you one more problem?”

“So you answered for me.”

“I made the arrangements I could.” He set down the bottle. “Mom just lost her husband. Do you expect her to go back to an empty house alone?”

The family calendar covered one kitchen wall.

Sunday: Evelyn moves in.

Monday: Rachel—groceries and prescriptions.

Tuesday: Rachel—hair appointment.

Wednesday: Rachel—wait for repair technician.

Cooking, shopping, company, transportation. Every task carried my name.

Patrick had assigned himself one call to the insurance company. Beside Elaine and Susan, he had written: Weekends when available.

“Your sisters visit occasionally, you make one call, and I do everything else?”

“Susan lives four hours away. Elaine has two children in school.”

I had heard both explanations for years.

Patrick braced his hands on the counter. “You have experience. Mom trusts you. An agency would cost more each month than our mortgage, and insurance won’t cover daily help.”

“So your affordable plan is me.”

“I’m saying we should use what the family already has.”

“I’m not something the family has.”

“Mom needs stability.”

“So do I.”

He turned toward the sink. “I sacrificed too. I worked. I paid the bills. I watched my father forget who I was.”

“But I was the person he called for every night.”

His fingers tapped twice against the counter. “This is what families do.”

A week earlier, beside Frank’s bed, Patrick had promised we would make no major decisions for a month after the funeral.

I had believed we meant both of us.

I turned the calendar back one page.

Patrick stepped toward me. “What are you looking for?”

Only three notes appeared on the previous month. The earliest was dated six weeks ago.

Talk to Mom about moving. Measure Rachel’s office.

Frank had still been alive.