It happens in the middle of an ordinary afternoon.
Which is how you know it matters.
I’m in the kitchen, half-listening to a lecture recording while chopping vegetables. Marcus is on the floor with Eleanor, building a lopsided tower of blocks that she keeps knocking over with delighted violence.
It’s not symbolic.
It’s not profound.
It’s just life.
And then my phone vibrates.
Unknown number.
Boston area code.
I hesitate for half a second before answering.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Chen-Valerio?”
“Yes.”
“This is Officer Ramirez with the Boston Police Department. I’m calling about Dante Chen.”
The name lands heavier than I expect.
Even now.
Even after hospice.
Even after the funeral.
“What about him?”
“There’s been a situation involving his remaining estate. We need to speak with you.
