Francis had been James’s lawyer before he was mine. He had one of those old-fashioned practices with framed licenses on dark walls and a receptionist who still answered the phone by saying, “Law Offices of Whitaker and Lane,” in a voice that could have belonged in 1987. His beard had gone fully gray now, and his glasses always seemed a little too far down his nose, but he still had the quick, amused eyes of a man who understood both the law and the many foolish ways families try to get around it.
“Mrs. Wembley,” he said, rising when I entered. “This is a surprise.”
“I need to revise my estate plan,” I said, sitting down. “Immediately.”
His expression changed at once.
“All right.”
I told him the practical version first. Revoked account access. Canceled recurring support. Wanted to protect my assets from pressure, guilt, manipulation, and future confusion. Needed a structure in place while my head was clear and my resolve was still fresh.
He asked only a few questions.
“Do you want Garrett to remain your health-care proxy?”
“No.”
“Do you want any child or grandchild to act under financial power of attorney?”
“No.”