The first thing I asked Samantha that morning was whether I could return home.
I had spent another night in the hospital, waking whenever someone passed the door.
My knee still hurt.
My body felt heavy, and every time the baby moved, I found myself paying attention to the smallest sensation.
But I wanted my own bed.
I wanted Lucas's T-shirt beneath my pillow.
I wanted to stop feeling like a visitor in my own life.
Samantha listened while I explained.
“Your ownership is not the problem,” she said. “Your father's behavior is.”
I looked at the hospital blanket.
“I know.”
“Before you return, we should make sure the situation at the property has been addressed appropriately.”
I didn't like waiting.
For years, I had waited for Charles to become reasonable.
I had waited for apologies that never came.
I had waited for him to recognize that I was an adult who could make her own decisions.
I didn't want to spend another day waiting for something I had every right to do.
But this was different.
I was pregnant, recovering from an assault, and trying to protect the life Lucas had left behind.
I agreed to let Samantha coordinate the necessary steps.
Then I asked about the documents my father had brought.
“We're working to establish exactly what he presented and whether he submitted anything beyond the request he made to my office,” she said.
“Did he use my name?”
“He claimed you had authorized him to act for you. We need to examine the actual paperwork before we can determine whether he used a false signature or made some other misrepresentation.”
I hated the uncertainty.
I wanted someone to tell me what Charles had done.
I wanted to know whether he had planned everything in advance.
But the truth was that I had seen only part of the morning.
I had been sitting at the kitchen table when he arrived.
I had been on the floor when he dragged me out.
And from the porch, I had watched him search Lucas's desk without knowing what he was looking for.
There were things I could describe.
There were things I could not.
Samantha wanted the difference preserved.
That afternoon, she explained more about the protections Lucas had established.
The trust was not an account my father could simply claim because he believed I was too overwhelmed to manage my affairs.
The house had its own ownership records.
The company shares were governed by their own arrangements.
Each part mattered.
I listened and asked questions whenever I became confused.
At one point, I stopped her.
“Why would Lucas need a provision for fraud?”
“It's a way of addressing certain unauthorized actions under the terms of the documents. I can't tell you every consequence until we've reviewed the relevant language in full.”
“So he thought someone might try to interfere?”
“He planned for the possibility that someone might attempt to act without proper authority.”
I looked at the wall.
Lucas had been practical.
He bought insurance before we needed it.
He kept copies of important documents.
He insisted that we update our emergency contacts before the baby arrived.
I used to tease him about always preparing for something.
He would smile and say that being prepared was easier than being sorry.
I had never imagined that his caution would become so important after his death.
“Did he tell you why he wanted those protections?” I asked.
“He explained that he wanted the arrangements to protect your interests and preserve the proper management of the assets.”
I closed my eyes.
That sounded like Lucas.
He had never needed a grand speech to explain that he cared about me.
He showed it by fixing the loose step on the porch before I could trip over it.
By filling my car with gas when he knew I had an appointment.
By checking the baby seat instructions three times because he didn't trust himself to remember every detail.
He had been preparing for a future he expected to share with us.
Now those preparations were all I had.
Samantha told me that she was also reviewing whether Charles had contacted anyone connected with Baldwin-Gallagher Logistics.
I remembered my father's expression when the phone rang.
He had been standing beside Lucas's desk, moving through papers.
Then he had heard something that made him stop.
“What did that call mean?” I asked.
“I don't have enough verified information to tell you precisely what he was told. But we are checking whether he made representations to the company or attempted to interfere with its affairs.”
I accepted that answer.
I was learning that the most useful information was not always the information I wanted most.
Sometimes the honest answer was that something remained unknown.
After the call, I sat quietly and looked at the list I had written on the hospital information sheet.
Trust.
Deed.
Company shares.
Authorization.
I added another word.
Evidence.
I wanted to understand the documents.
I wanted to know what Charles had done.
And I wanted to return home without feeling that I was walking into another confrontation.
For the first time since the assault, those goals seemed possible.
Not easy.
Possible.
Click here to continue reading: PART 14: The Messages My Father Left on My Phone Sounded Like the Same Old Excuses, Until I Realized He Was Asking Me to Protect Him
Three Weeks After My Husband Died, My Father Walked Into My Kitchen and Told Me I No Longer Belonged There
Part 13 of 24
