He called a contractor who could install a temporary handrail at his farmhouse, a retired nurse who lived nearby, and an attorney named Maren Cole.

Each call ended with the same phrase: ‘Only if Seraphina agrees.’

Maren arrived that afternoon carrying a plain folder.

She wore comfortable shoes and looked nothing like the ruthless attorneys my father used to invite to dinner.

She sat beside my bed and began with a question nobody in my family had asked: ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Whether somebody took money that was supposed to be mine,’ I said.

Then, after a pause, ‘And whether I can stop them from doing it again.’