David Carter returned home forty-eight days ahead of schedule. The military duffel bag was still slung over his shoulder when he walked into the kitchen, finding his mother, Margaret, standing by the island with a glass of wine. Over at the sink, a frail, unusually thin woman was washing a mug, her head concealed beneath a dark beanie.
David’s brow furrowed. "Ma'am?"
The woman went completely rigid. Margaret’s face drained of all color.
"David…"
He took a step forward. "Do I know you?"
The woman turned. The second David caught sight of her eyes, his heavy bag crashed to the floor.
"Claire?"
Tears streamed down his wife’s face. "David…"
In two strides, he was across the kitchen. "What’s happened to you?"
Claire touched the edge of her beanie with trembling fingers. David gave a subtle nod before tenderly slipping the cap off her head. Her hair was just starting to sprout back following treatment.
David stood rooted to the spot. "Are you ill?"
"Lymphoma."
"Since when?"
"Since April."
David’s gaze snapped to Margaret. "April?"
Claire reached for his hand. "I assumed you were aware."
"I had no idea."
Her grip loosened.
"Wait… Claire, what are you saying?"
"You emailed me."
David instantly shook his head. "I never did."
Claire retrieved her phone and displayed an email on the screen. David scanned the text, his face hardening completely. "This wasn't written by me."
Claire went still. Margaret placed her wine glass onto the counter with agonizing slowness. "David, let me explain."
His eyes cut through her. "You breached my email?"
Margaret offered no reply.
Claire drew a shaky breath. "She told me you insisted I move out prior to your return."
David whirled around to face Claire. "What?"
"That facing another sickness was more than you could handle. That you required space."
"Claire, those words never came from me."
She broke down sobbing. "Then why were those emails sent to me?"
Margaret chimed in, "Because I required time."
David pivoted sharply to his mother. "Time to do what?"
Margaret cast a quick glance at Claire. "Not in front of her."
"Right here. Right now."
Claire exhaled heavily. "There’s more."
David looked at his wife. "What else?"
"I executed some paperwork."
Margaret took a step in. "Claire, you're drained."
Claire locked eyes with her mother-in-law. "Never tell me when I am too exhausted to speak."
David stepped nearer to his wife. "What paperwork?"
"The documents regarding your father's trust fund," Claire revealed.
David’s face went white. "I didn't authorize you to sign anything."
Claire met his eyes steadily. "Margaret assured me you did."
David turned a cold, measured gaze upon his mother. "What did you execute?"
Margaret set her jaw tight. "The investment simply required a few additional months."
"What investment?"
Dead silence filled the room.
Claire searched David’s face. "You genuinely have no clue what she means?"
"None whatsoever."
Margaret closed her eyes tightly. David took a deliberate step toward her. "Mom… what became of the trust fund?"
Margaret parted her lips, genuine terror finally surfacing on her face. "I allocated a portion of it to…"
Claire received her diagnosis on a Tuesday.
She had been feeling tired.
Then a swollen lymph node in her neck.
Then blood work.
Biopsy.
She wasn't expecting the word cancer.
No one ever is.
The hematologist spoke slowly.
Treatment.
Reasonably favorable prognosis.
Tests.
Claire heard only half of it.
She walked out.
Called David.
No answer.
Normal.
Time difference.
She sent: I need to talk to you when you can. It's important. I'm okay right now.
Two hours later, Margaret called.
— What's wrong?
Claire was surprised.