She requested the records.
I did not speak over her or pretend to become her voice simply because I disagreed with my mother.
Mom had spent years describing Nana as confused whenever Nana wanted something inconvenient.
I was not going to do the same thing in reverse.
I also called a financial adviser experienced with older clients.
Two days later, someone knocked on my front door.
Nora came toward the hallway.
“Mom?”
“Stay in the living room.”
I opened the door.
A local community officer stood outside.
“Ms. Carter?”
“Yes.”
“We received a request to check on Ruth Henderson’s welfare.”
Of course.
“Nana?”
She came down the hallway with her cane.
The officer asked if he could speak with her privately.
“Absolutely.”
I took the children upstairs.
About twenty minutes later, he called me back.
Nana sat comfortably in the blue chair, looking faintly amused.
The officer stood near the door.
“Ms. Henderson has explained that she chose to move here voluntarily.”
“Yes.”
“She is very clear about her wishes.”
Nana nodded.
“I keep telling people that.”
The officer gave a small smile and left.
I closed the door behind him.
Nana looked at me.
“Your mother is going to be furious.”
“She already is.”
“Good.”
“Nana.”
“What? I’m old. Let me enjoy one inappropriate thought.”
I laughed.
It was the first genuine laugh I had managed since Christmas.
Then the extended family got involved.
Aunts called.
Cousins called.
People I hadn’t spoken to since Easter suddenly wanted to discuss “the situation.”
Mom’s version had traveled faster than mine.
According to that version, I had become emotional at Christmas, impulsively taken Nana away, and was now refusing to return her because I was angry.
Whenever someone actually called Nana, she corrected them.
“I chose to leave.”
Some accepted that.
Others behaved as though turning eighty-two automatically removed a person’s ability to make a decision.
Eventually Nana had enough.
“Invite them.”
“Here?”
“No. You don’t want your mother in this house.”
“I don’t.”
“Aunt Carol’s, then.”
Aunt Carol had always occupied the closest thing our family had to neutral territory.
She agreed.
The following Saturday, we gathered in her living room.
Mom.
Dad.
Marissa.
Aunt Carol.
Aunt Linda.
Nana.
Me.
I left Nora and Cole with a friend. They had already been involved in enough.
Mom arrived carrying a folder.
She sat upright on the sofa and immediately said, “Before this gets out of hand—”
Nana interrupted her.
“It already did.”
Mom’s expression tightened.
“Mother.”
“I’m speaking.”
The room changed.
Mom had spent years answering questions directed toward Nana.
Not that afternoon.
Nana opened a canvas tote bag.
Inside was a notebook I had kept for almost four years.
I recognized it instantly.
Medication changes.
Blood-pressure readings.
Prescription pickups.
Doctors’ appointments.
Questions to ask at visits.
The notebook had begun as a practical tool.
Now it was a record.
Nana opened it.
“Elena.”
I looked at her.
“Tell them what this is.”
“You know.”
“I want them to hear it.”
So I explained.
Aunt Carol took the notebook and turned several pages.
“This is your handwriting?”
“Yes.”
“Every week?”
“Most weeks.”
Aunt Linda looked at Mom.
“I thought you handled Ruth’s medications.”
Mom shifted.
“I live with her.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“I did plenty.”
Nana looked directly at her daughter.
“Name the pharmacy.”
Mom stared at her.
“What?”
“What pharmacy fills my heart medication?”
“This is ridiculous.”
Nana turned toward Carol.
“Elena knows.”
Everyone looked at me.
“Walgreens on Stonebridge. Dr. Patel renewed it in October. The dosage changed in March.”
Nana nodded.
“Who took me to Dr. Patel?”
“I did.”
“Who scheduled it?”
“I did.”
“Who called when the refill was denied?”
“I did.”
Mom stood.
“I am not sitting here being interrogated.”
Then Dad spoke.
“Sit down, Diane.”
Everybody went still.
My father rarely contradicted my mother publicly.
Mom turned toward him.
“What did you say?”
“Telling the truth isn’t an interrogation.”
She stared.
Dad looked at Nana.
Then at me.
“Elena has been doing most of it.”
Silence.