The night before, a truck ran a red light and crushed my sedan so badly firefighters had to cut me out. I woke up bruised, stitched together, and barely conscious, only to learn my daughter had forged documents, transferred my property, sold my vehicle, and tried to drain what she thought was my retirement account.
“What exactly did I forget?” Clara demanded again.
“You should’ve checked whose name everything was actually under.”
This time, the silence stretched longer.
Then Victor grabbed the phone.
“Old man, stop being dramatic,” he sneered. “The sale’s done. Buyers move in Monday. Clara deserves better than wasting her life babysitting you.”
Pain spread through my chest, but my mind became perfectly calm.
“Victor,” I said quietly, “you picked the wrong broken old man.”
He laughed.
“See you never.”
The line disconnected.
The nurse stepped cautiously into the room.
“Mr. Whitaker… are you okay?”
I looked down at the IV in my hand.
“Yes,” I said calmly. “Call my attorney.”