chaotic for a child. Grandma’s house was a solid brick two-story with squeaky oak stairs, a narrow kitchen, and a huge maple tree outside that buried the porch in helicopter seeds every spring.
When Grandma June died, she left the entire property to me.
No mortgage.
No co-owner.
No Mercer name anywhere on the deed.
Only mine.
Standing outside Vivian’s bedroom, I suddenly remembered every document Grant had handed me over the previous months.
Medical authorizations.
Insurance forms.
Caregiver reimbursements.
Emergency planning.
He always seemed to bring them out while
