I asked him to pay for a stair lift on the stairs at 48 Linwood Street. And a new furnace. Thomas was right about the furnace.
And then I turned to Thomas.
“I want to revoke the power of attorney,” I said.
He flinched.
“Not because I don’t trust you,” I said. “Because I want to make my own decisions again. While I still can. When I can’t, I’ll sign a new one. And I’ll ask you to be on it. You and your brother and your sister. All three of you. Together. So no one carries it alone.”
Thomas looked at me for a long moment.
Then he nodded.
“That’s fair, Mom,” he said. “That’s more than fair.”
Mr. Fisk’s assistant brought in a notary from downstairs, a young woman named Kayla with a heavy silver stamp. I signed the revocation in front of her. She checked my license, watched me sign, and pressed her seal on the page.
