Priscilla turned the first page and went still. It was not a will. It was not a deed. It was a ledger, page after page, in my careful nurse’s handwriting, of every dollar I had given her and Bennett over the past twelve years. The eight thousand for their wedding. The rent I covered three separate times. The loan for Bennett’s failed business that he swore he would repay within the year. Each entry dated, each one with the bank transfer record clipped neatly behind it, and a running total at the bottom of the final page that made Bennett’s mouth fall open.

Fifty-one thousand dollars. That was what they already owed me, documented and undeniable, before either of them had ever asked for half my pension. Priscilla flipped faster now, her confidence curdling into something closer to panic. Because behind the ledger were the other pages Sarah had watched me assemble at my kitchen table. Screenshots of texts where Priscilla called the house “basically mine already.” A note from my doctor confirming I was, in his words, entirely sound of mind. And a letter, addressed to them, that I had written the night I finally stopped mistaking their visits for love.