I came home for Christmas in my dress blues—and stepped into a house that felt colder than the snow outside. On the kitchen counter, my mother had left a single sentence that made my hands start to shake.

“Yes. Supposedly. I was stationed out of state. They told me Grandpa was fine. They told me he was forgetful but comfortable. They sent photos from Thanksgiving where he looked…” I stopped, because the Thanksgiving photo came back to me suddenly—Grandpa sitting in his recliner, smiling too hard, a blanket over his knees, my father standing behind him with one hand on his shoulder. I had looked at that photo in my barracks and felt homesick. Now I wondered how much of that smile had been staged.

Denise took notes.

“And the financial documents?”

I showed her the bank statements, the transfers, the copies of the deed, the handwritten letter from Grandma Elizabeth. Denise did not pretend to be a lawyer. She did not tell me what would happen. But she told me what she could do.