Linda folded her hands. “These things almost never happen all at once.”
No. They happened the way a shoreline disappears—one inch at a time while you keep telling yourself the water isn’t rising.
When everything was signed, Linda slid a final document toward me.
“This removes Garrett from view access as well,” she said. “He will no longer be able to inquire about balances or initiate anything on your behalf.”
I signed it.
Then she hesitated.
“Edith,” she said, “I don’t mean to overstep. But when there’s a financial shift this significant, it can help to review estate documents too. Power of attorney, trust provisions, all of that.”
“I’m going to my lawyer next.”
A brief look of approval crossed her face.
“That’s wise.”
Outside, the morning had turned bright and clear. The rain was gone. The air carried that fresh, washed smell North Carolina gets after a night storm. I stood on the sidewalk outside the bank with a thick envelope under my arm and felt ten pounds lighter and twenty years older at the same time.
My next stop was Francis Whitaker’s office downtown.