“How are you feeling, Mom?”
“Sore,” I said. “But okay.”
“Good. That’s good.” He set the manila envelope on his lap. He smoothed it out with both hands. “Listen. While you’re in here, there’s some insurance stuff we need to take care of. Just some forms. Boring stuff. So we can handle your bills while you recover.”
“What kind of forms?”
“Just a power of attorney,” David said easily. “Updated. The old one’s from 2016. The insurance company wants a newer one. So I can talk to them for you.”
He slid a document out of the envelope. He uncapped a pen. He held both out to me.
“Just sign on the last page,” he said. “Where the yellow tab is.”
I didn’t take the pen.
I looked at my son. My oldest. He had Frank’s chin and Frank’s way of tilting his head when he wanted something. He was forty years old. He had a wife and two kids and a house in Kirkland with a three-car garage.
