But that night, after a truck ran a red light and crushed my sedan like aluminum foil, I woke in the hospital to discover my daughter had used forged paperwork to list my house, transfer my car, and empty what she believed was my retirement account.
“What exactly did I forget?” Clara asked, her tone sharper now.
“You should’ve checked whose name everything was actually under.”
Silence.
Then Victor grabbed the phone. “Old man, stop being dramatic. The sale’s finished. The buyers move in Monday. Clara deserves better than spending her life babysitting you.”
I closed my eyes.
Pain spread through my body like flames, but my mind turned ice cold.
“Victor,” I said softly, “you picked the wrong broken old man.”
He laughed. “See you never.”
The line went d:ead.
The nurse stepped closer. “Mr. Whitaker, are you okay?”
I looked at the IV taped to my hand, then at the phone.
“Yes,” I said. “Call my attorney.”
