He had replaced their garbage disposal, rebuilt two deck steps, found them a plumber, fought with their cable company, organized Medicare paperwork, and somehow become the only person alive who knew where Richard kept the password to his brokerage account.
When Richard had his knee replaced, Mark used eleven vacation days between the surgery, the miserable first week afterward, and physical therapy.
Susan lived in South Carolina.
Rebecca lived in Arizona.
They weren’t bad daughters.
Susan called every Sunday. Rebecca visited when she could. Both remembered birthdays, sent presents, and loved their parents.
But whenever something leaked, broke, beeped, expired, needed a signature, or required a driver before eight in the morning, Mark’s phone rang.
On our drive home from the anniversary dinner, I waited until we reached I-270.
“Do you want to talk about the will?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
I let another mile pass.
“Because I’d be angry.”
