Chapter 7: The Solicitor's Office
Her name was Miriam Graves.
She was in her mid-fifties, with a precise manner and the kind of stillness that made you feel, the moment you sat down, that things were going to be handled.
She read the text messages Ruth had forwarded — Daniel's message about me having no one else, and three further messages Ruth had not yet shown me, which Daniel had sent in the days after the second visit.
She read them without expression.
Then she set the phone face-down on the desk.
"Has he made any formal requests in writing?" she asked.
"Letters, emails, anything referencing the property directly?"
"Not to me," I said.
"Verbally only."
"And the second visit — the one with the former wife.
Was anyone else present?"
"Ruth was on her way.
She arrived about ten minutes after I closed the door."
"Did either of them mention the property by name?
As in, did they reference ownership, co-ownership, caretaking arrangements, or any financial instrument?"
"Patricia used the word arrangement.
She said something formal that protects me."
Miriam wrote something.
"And the threat — the welfare concern — that came via your grandson."
"Yes."
"Thomas." She looked at her notes.
"Sixteen.
Currently living with Patricia."
"Yes."
"I'd like his message screenshotted and sent to me today, if possible." She looked up.
"What I'm about to tell you is important.
The welfare route is not an empty threat.
It has been used in situations like this.
It rarely succeeds when the subject is clearly capable and has legal representation — but it can cause significant disruption, stress, and delay.
The goal, in cases like this, is usually not to win.
It's to exhaust." She paused.
"Do you understand what I mean by that?"
"They want to wear me down," I said.
"Yes."
"So that I agree to something just to make it stop."
"That is the pattern." She folded her hands.
"So we are going to do two things.
First, I am going to help you make your affairs so clearly documented and so legally airtight that any welfare application would be dismissed immediately.
Second, I am going to draft a formal letter to Daniel and to Patricia — separately — notifying them that you are legally represented, that all further contact regarding your property or finances must go through this office, and that any attempt to initiate a welfare proceeding without legitimate cause will be met with a formal response."
"Can you do that?"
"I already have," she said.
"I drafted it this morning after Ruth called me.
I just needed to meet you first to confirm the details."
She slid a document across the desk.
I read it.
It was two pages.
Clear, direct, precise.
It named Daniel.
It named Patricia.
It named the house.
It named the specific behaviours — unannounced visits, verbal requests regarding property, the documented message exchange — without overstating a single thing.
At the bottom, it said that any further contact of this nature would be recorded and held on file.
I looked up.
"How soon can this go out?" I said.
"Today," said Miriam.
"If you sign it now."
I picked up the pen she offered.
My hand was steady.
I signed.
Ruth, sitting beside me, let out a breath so quiet I almost missed it.
Miriam took the document back and straightened it against her desk.
"There's one more thing," she said.
"Your will."
I nodded.
"I'd like to review it.
Not to pressure you toward any particular decision — that is entirely yours to make.
But I want to ensure that the language is current, specific, and leaves no room for challenge." She paused.
"People in Daniel's situation sometimes attempt to contest a will on the grounds of undue influence or diminished capacity.
A well-constructed document, made while you are clearly and demonstrably competent, is the strongest protection against that."
"I had it written six years ago," I said.
"Then it's time to revisit it," she said simply.
After the meeting, Ruth drove me home.
We didn't speak much on the way.
The city moved past the windows and I watched it without really seeing it.
When we pulled into my driveway, Ruth turned off the engine but didn't get out.
"How do you feel?" she said.
I thought about it honestly.
"Like I finally stopped waiting for something to happen," I said.
"And started deciding what happens next."
Ruth nodded once.
She got out of the car.
We went inside, and I made tea, and we sat in the kitchen with the afternoon light coming through the window, and neither of us needed to say anything more.
But my phone lit up on the table with a message from Daniel.
*We need to talk.
This is getting out of hand.
You're making enemies of the only family you have left.*
I turned the phone face-down.
May you like
Tomorrow, Miriam's letter would arrive at his door.
Tonight, the house was mine, and it was quiet, and that was enough.
