My office.

I put the phone face down on the passenger seat.

Clarksville rolled past the windshield. Fast food. Pawn shops. A tattoo parlor. A billboard for a personal injury lawyer in a cowboy hat. The town around every Army post in America looks the same. It’s not pretty. It’s home.

My grandfather’s house sat on a quiet street off Memorial Drive. Brick ranch. Wide porch. Oak tree in the front yard he’d planted the year my father was born. He’d lived in it for forty-one years. He’d died in the back bedroom three years ago, holding my hand.

He’d never once mentioned the trust while he was alive.

He’d only said one thing, in the hospital, when I asked him if he needed anything.

Keep the folder in the safe, Nat. Never let it out of your sight. And never tell your father where it is.

I hadn’t understood that at the time.

I was beginning to.

There were three cars in the driveway. Dad’s F-150. Mom’s Camry. A black Audi Q5 I’d never seen before.

Vance’s.

I parked on the street.

When I walked in the front door, my mother was in the kitchen. My kitchen. Wiping down the counter with a dish towel I’d never seen before. Yellow. Embroidered with sunflowers.

She looked up and smiled.

-You’re back early. I thought you had appointments on post today.

-I finished early.

-Did you get your papers together? For four o’clock?

-Working on it.

-Good. Your father’s so relieved. He was worried you’d be difficult.

-Was he?

She folded the towel and hung it over the oven handle.

-You know how he gets. He just wants everyone taken care of.

-Everyone.

-Natalie.

She sighed. Patient. The sigh she’d used my whole life when she wanted me to feel like the problem.

-Your sister has had a very hard year. You don’t know what she’s been through. Her body’s been through so much.

-What does that mean?

-It means she’s resting. Upstairs. She doesn’t need stress. So when you see her, be kind.

-I’m always kind.

-Be a good sister.

There it was again.

I let it go past me. I didn’t react.

Instead, I leaned against the doorframe.

-Mom. Can I ask you something?

-Of course.

-When I checked my bank accounts last night, there was a power of attorney on file. With your name as my agent.

She didn’t freeze. She didn’t flinch. That was the thing about my mother. She never did.

She picked up a coffee mug and rinsed it.

-Yes. The one you signed before you left.

-I didn’t sign a power of attorney before I left.

-Of course you did, sweetheart. We did it at the kitchen table. In January. You were packing. You were exhausted. Your father brought the form home from the legal office on post.

-There’s no legal assistance record of me getting a power of attorney. I checked.

-Well, it was a general form. We got it online. You signed it. You were tired. You signed a lot of things that week.

-I’d remember signing a power of attorney.

-Would you?

She turned off the water. She looked at me with real concern.

-Natalie, you were not yourself before that deployment. You weren’t sleeping. You were snapping at everyone. Your father and I talked about it. We were worried. That’s why we wanted someone to be able to handle your affairs while you were gone. In case something happened.

-Something did happen. Forty-five thousand dollars happened.

-We used that money for family emergencies. You’d want that. You’d have said yes if we could have reached you.

-You could have reached me. I had email every week. I had a phone call every Sunday.

-And you’d have worried. In a war zone. Over money. Is that what you wanted?

-What emergencies?

She dried her hands slowly.

-That’s private. That’s your sister’s business.

-It’s my money.

-It’s family money.

-It was my hazardous-duty pay, Mom. I earned it in a combat zone.

She put the towel down. For the first time, her face hardened. Just slightly. Just at the corners of her mouth.

-Do you know what your problem is, Natalie? You keep score. You always have. Every little thing anybody ever did for you, you remember. Every little thing anybody ever took, you remember more. Your grandfather spoiled you. He made you think everything was yours.

-The house is mine.

-The house was supposed to be your father’s.

The words hung in the kitchen.

-Thomas left it to you because he was angry at your father. Over nothing. Over old business. He used you to punish his own son. And you let him.

-Grandpa didn’t use me.

-Grandpa used everyone.

She picked up her purse from the counter.

-I’m going to the store. We need things for dinner. Be ready at three-thirty. Your father will drive.