Surely, once she knew why I had divorced her, she would understand.

But that was the old voice.

The voice that believed one sufficiently dramatic explanation could erase years of damage.

At noon, a social worker named Daria Collins approached.

She asked me to step into a private consultation room.

“Ms.

Campbell has given consent for her brother to receive medical updates,” she said.

“At present, she has not authorized you to visit or receive new information.”