Someone had taken the question of who would raise Maya, with all her jokes and bedtime fears and favorite books, and turned it into a sequence of administrative boxes.

At home, Maya had a cardboard calendar beside her bed.

She drew a tiny star on it every day she managed to practice piano for ten minutes.

She hated the scales but loved the idea of finishing something difficult.

The thought of strangers discussing her as a beneficiary rather than a child made my hands shake.

“Who prepared it?” Bell asked.

Vance indicated the firm’s name on the final page.