Mr. Fisk turned to a page in his folder.
“They were addressed to ‘Mrs. Robert J. Whitmore.’ At 48 Linden Street.”
“I live at 48 Linwood Street,” I said.
There was a long pause.
Mr. Fisk took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I’m going to have to look into that,” he said quietly. “Very carefully.”
Thomas actually laughed. A strangled, disbelieving laugh.
“Twelve years,” he said. “Over one letter.”
“Your father would have caught it,” I said. “He always read the small print.”
Mr. Fisk walked me through the trust terms page by page. I read every one. I wasn’t going to make Robert’s mistake, or mine.
The money was mine to use for my health, my care, and my comfort, for the rest of my life. Medical bills. Home care. Nursing care if I needed it. Repairs to the house so I could stay in it. Anything that kept me safe and well.Get Health Tips
