I came home from the funeral to tell my parents and sister that my husband had left me $8.5m and 6 Manhattan lofts. When I walked into the house, I overheard my parents talking. What they were saying… made my blood run cold.

“James, it’s FA Terrell. I need to see you Monday. It’s urgent. Please call me back.”

I sit on the edge of the bed and play the recording through my earbuds. Every word is clear. My mother’s voice, my father’s voice, my sister’s voice, all three of them, calm and methodical, planning to erase me.

I don’t sleep.

The next morning, there’s a man in the living room I’ve never met. Patricia introduces him over coffee.

“This is Dr. Voss. He’s an old friend of your fathers from college. I thought it might help to have someone to talk to, sweetheart after everything.”

Dr. Raymond Voss is 64. Silver hair, wire rimmed glasses, the kind of cardigan that’s supposed to make you feel safe. He shakes my hand and smiles like we’re at a dinner party.

“I’m sorry for your loss, FA,” he says. “Your parents are worried about you.”

We sit in the den. Patricia stays positioned on the love seat like a chaperone. Voss opens a leather notebook.

“Do you find it hard to make decisions right now?”

No.

“Do you sometimes hear Nathan’s voice even when you know he’s gone?”

No.

“Have you had thoughts of harming yourself?”

No.