“If something goes wrong,” Vanessa whispered, “don’t call her lawyer. Call me first.”
Metal instruments clicked softly. Machines breathed beside me.
My son, Daniel, stood close enough that I could hear the faint scrape of his shoes against the floor. He stayed silent.
The surgeon cleared his throat uneasily. “Mrs. Whitmore has legal directives in place.”
Vanessa laughed under her breath. “Old directives. Daniel is her only child. He’ll sign anything I put in front of him.”
My heart pounded violently beneath the medication pinning me down.
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