Her mother made a doubtful sound. Tiffany’s voice dropped lower, almost impatient. “By the time she realizes what’s happening, the conservatorship petition will already make her look unstable. Peter has examples. The doctor’s appointment. The confusion with the pharmacy. That time she forgot her charger and drove back to Philly without it. We don’t need much. Just enough to say she’s having memory problems.”
My vision narrowed.
Conservatorship.
Her mother sucked in a breath. “That sounds extreme.”
“It sounds necessary. The house is worth almost triple what she paid.”
Then Tiffany again, in the bright voice she used when pretending to be charming: “Once the sale goes through, we can put her somewhere lovely. She’ll have a little room, meals, people her own age. She should be grateful.”
I don’t remember breathing. I remember the cold siding under my fingers and the taste of metal in my mouth and the sound of a spoon clinking against a mug inside my own kitchen while they discussed filing me away like inconvenient furniture.
