“What does ‘comfort’ mean?” I asked. “In the legal sense?”
Mr. Fisk smiled a little.
“Your husband wrote a letter of intent. It’s attached to the trust. It’s not legally binding. But we’re asked to honor it.”
He slid a single page across the table.
To whoever manages this trust:
Comfort means whatever Margaret says it means. If she wants a new kitchen, buy her a new kitchen. If she wants to go to Ireland, buy her a plane ticket. She spent fifty years putting herself last. Let her go first for a while.
— R.J.W.
I couldn’t read the rest. Claire had to read it to me.
The last section of the trust said that after I died, whatever was left would be split three ways. One third to Carter Biomedical’s ovarian cancer research, “to finish what Evelyn and I started.” One third to an education fund for our grandchildren and great-grandchildren. And one third divided equally between our three children.
