Dad’s furious shout echoed across the porch of my Cape May, New Jersey, beach house. The man at the entrance remained composed.
“Robert Whitmore,” he said calmly, “I’m Martin Cole, Hannah’s attorney. We need to discuss your attempt to take possession of her property.”
Dad turned white. Mom dropped the itinerary she’d brought for their weekend.
Three days before, I’d undergone spinal surgery. My physician prescribed strict precautions, minimal movement, and weeks of rest. At thirty-five, I was drained and could barely walk without help. Recovering safely at home was essential.
Thursday morning, Dad sent a text.
“We’re using your beach house for three days this weekend.”
I stared at it, trying to understand how he could make such a demand.
“Dad, I just had spinal surgery. I need to recover.”
