Alex had never mentioned wanting ownership, and I had not authorized any transfer.
David advised me to sign a written declaration confirming that no one could alter the deed or represent me in a property transaction.
I signed it quietly and placed it in the blue folder.
Now I lifted the inquiry from the table.
“Did you send this?” I asked Alex.
He read the first line, and the color left his face.
“I was only asking a question.”
“Why?”
“Because we were discussing long-term options.”
“What long-term options?”
He glanced at Jenna.
She folded her arms again, but her confidence had become brittle.
“You live alone in a three-bedroom apartment,” she said.
“Alex and I are starting a family.
It made sense to understand what might happen someday.”
“Someday after I die?”
Lorraine whispered Jenna’s name, warning her to stop.
Jenna ignored her.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then explain what you meant.”
She looked around the apartment as though searching for someone willing to support her.
No one did.
Even Alex stepped away.
David’s voice came through the phone.
“Mrs.
Whitmore, the inquiry did more than ask about inheritance.
It asked whether a transfer could be completed while an owner was temporarily medically impaired.”
The words seemed to drain the air from the room.
I looked at the medical folder I had carried home.
My address, diagnosis codes, and appointment schedule were printed inside it.
That morning, my doctor had ordered additional cardiac tests after I experienced several episodes of dizziness.
The condition was manageable, but I had told Alex I might need help after the procedure.
Jenna knew I was being evaluated.
She also knew I would be out of the apartment for most of the day.
“Where did you get information about my health?” I asked.
Alex answered too quickly.
“I told her you had an appointment.
That’s all.”
David asked me to check the folder.
I opened it.
The papers were not in the order my doctor had arranged them.
A consent form had been moved to the front.
The page containing my medication list was folded backward, and the summary describing my upcoming procedure had a faint gray line across the corner, as though it had been pressed against a copier or scanner.
My hands began to shake.
I placed both palms on the table until they steadied.
Jenna saw the movement and mistook it for weakness.
“Margaret, you’re overwhelmed,” she said gently.
“This is exactly why Alex and I were trying to plan ahead.
You shouldn’t be managing all of this alone.”
Her voice had changed.
The arrogance was gone, replaced by soft concern.
It was more frightening than the arrogance.
“Managing what?” I asked.
“The apartment.
Your medical care.
