Barbara called Alan Mitchell.
He answered on the third ring.
“Barbara?”
“Alan.”
Something in her voice made his own change immediately.
“What happened?”
“My daughter-in-law has asked me to leave the Florida condo because her parents have arrived.”
Silence.
“Your condo?”
“Yes.”
“And Daniel?”
“He agrees with her.”
Another silence.
Barbara could imagine Alan removing his glasses.
Alan Mitchell had been Robert’s attorney for nearly thirty years. He was seventy-two now, semi-retired, infuriatingly precise, and possibly the only person alive who knew as much about the Ellison family’s finances as Barbara did.
Perhaps more.
“Do you have the brown folder?” he asked.
Barbara looked down.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I brought it.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
Barbara understood.
She stared at Robert’s handwriting.
Then she said, “I think I finally understand why Robert insisted I keep it.”
Alan did not answer immediately.
When he finally spoke, his voice was careful.
“Barbara, if you revoke Daniel’s authority, it needs to be absolute. Banks. Property management. The association. County records. Everything.”
“I know.”
“He will be notified.”
“I know.”
“He may react badly.”
“He already has.”
“Barbara.”
“Yes?”
“Are you certain?”
For most of her life, certainty had frightened her.
Certainty meant somebody else might be unhappy.
Certainty meant saying no without apologizing.
Certainty meant allowing other people to experience the consequences of their own choices.
Barbara looked toward the balcony.
“Completely.”
Alan exhaled.
“All right.”
And something that had remained dormant for eleven years began moving.
The original documents had been prepared after Robert’s heart attack.
Daniel had been thirty-three then.
He and Harper had been married for less than two years.
Robert worried that if he died suddenly, Barbara would struggle to manage rental properties, insurance policies, maintenance contracts, bank accounts, and the Florida condominium alone.
So Alan created a limited property-management authorization.
Daniel could communicate with contractors.
Pay association fees.
Handle maintenance emergencies.
Sign certain management documents.
Access one designated household account.
But the authorization contained restrictions in enormous capital letters.
NO AUTHORITY TO SELL, CONVEY, MORTGAGE, TRANSFER, PLEDGE OR OTHERWISE ENCUMBER ANY REAL PROPERTY.
Robert had insisted on that language.
Barbara remembered Daniel laughing.
“Dad, you think I’m going to steal your condo?”
Robert had not laughed.
“No. I think human beings become stupid when money scares them.”
Daniel had rolled his eyes.
After Robert recovered, nobody thought much about the document.
Then Robert died.
And Barbara, drowning in grief, never revoked it.
Daniel gradually took over more administrative tasks.
He contacted the condo association.
He arranged repairs.
He paid bills from Barbara’s account and sent her receipts.
Barbara had been grateful.
Then came other requests.
A business loan.
Forty thousand dollars.
Then another twenty-five.
Then money toward Daniel and Harper’s kitchen renovation.
A vacation Harper said they desperately needed.
