I’d known Luka for over forty years.

He’d been my husband’s best friend before becoming our attorney, and he’d handled our wills, our investments, and ultimately the estate after the cancer took James.

I had always found comfort in his meticulous nature and his old-school approach to his clients.

That familiarity was a lifeline now.

“You look well, Nevaeh,” he said as I ushered him into the living room.

His eyes, though, scanned my face with professional assessment—no doubt looking for the cognitive decline my daughter had apparently diagnosed.