She approached the casket. The man beside her—Ryan, I assumed—placed a hand on her shoulder. She touched the edge of the wood, her head bowed. It looked like grief. It looked real. I waited for her to turn, to meet my eyes, to say something.
She did not.
After a minute, she stepped back. Ryan guided her toward the door. They left without a word. No hug, no acknowledgement—just a performance for a room full of strangers. Dorothy squeezed my arm. I did not cry. I had no tears left.
Two weeks later, I sat in the office of Thomas’s estate attorney. The numbers were clear. The house in Austin valued at $340,000. Savings accounts, $215,000. Life insurance 50,000. Total $65,000. All of it left to me. The attorney slid the documents across the desk. I signed where he indicated. My hand was steady.
Thomas had been meticulous—every account, every policy, every deed, all in order. He had wanted to make sure I would be safe.
I drove home alone. Dorothy had offered to come, but I told her I needed to think. I sat in the driveway for 10 minutes before I could make myself go inside.
Three weeks after the funeral, the letter arrived. It was addressed to me, but the return address was a law firm in San Antonio. Connor Hayes, attorney at law. I opened it, standing in the kitchen.
Dear Mrs. Henderson. I represent your daughter Amanda Peterson in a matter concerning the estate of Thomas Henderson. Miss Peterson has asked me to inform you that she intends to contest the will. She believes her father was not of sound mind at the time the will was executed and that you exerted undue influence over him during his final months. She further alleges that you isolated Mr. Henderson from his family and manipulated him for financial gain.
I read it twice. Then I set it on the counter and called Dorothy. She answered on the second ring. I told her to come over. I did not explain why.
When she arrived, I handed her the letter. She read it in silence, then looked up at me.
“Barbara…”
I shook my head. I walked to the mantle and picked up the photograph of Thomas from our 40th anniversary. He was smiling, his arm around my shoulders. We had been happy.
I set the photo down and turned back to Dorothy. “I won’t let them take what he worked for,” I said. “I promise.”
The second letter arrived on December 10th. I was sitting at the kitchen table with my coffee when I saw the return address—the same law firm, Connor Hayes. I opened it slowly, this time.
Petition for emergency guardianship.
The words blurred for a moment. I blinked and read again. Amanda was petitioning the court to declare me mentally incompetent. The document stated that I was incapacitated by grief and unable to manage my own affairs. As evidence, they had attached a copy of my therapy records from when I was 17 years old—50 years ago. A few sessions after my mother died. Private notes I had assumed were long destroyed.
Amanda volunteered to serve as my guardian.
I set the letter down. My hands were shaking.
I picked up my phone and called the number Dorothy had given me two weeks earlier—a colleague from the bank, an attorney, Michael Reynolds. His voice was calm, professional. I explained who I was and why I was calling. He listened without interrupting.
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