I’d laughed and told her she’d been watching too many crime shows.
She hadn’t laughed back.
“Promise me, Daniel,” she’d said, gripping my wrist. “If it ever comes down to the girls or anyone else, you choose the girls. Every single time.”
I had promised, the careless way you promise things you don’t expect to be tested on.
I didn’t know I was signing the most important contract of my life.
Her lawyer was an old friend of hers named Margaret Whitfield, a sharp, silver-haired woman who had known our family for twenty years.
After the funeral, Margaret had walked me through all of it, and I’d signed where she pointed, numb with grief.
The house, in trust for Lily and Maya.
The insurance, in trust for Lily and Maya.
Me as guardian and trustee, legally unable to touch a cent for anyone but them.
At the time it had felt like just one more painful piece of losing her.
