I felt something inside me harden.
“Did she name the facility?”
“She called it Willow something.”
“Willow Haven?”
Mother nodded.
I knew the name.
Willow Haven was a private memory-care facility nearly three hours away. It was expensive, isolated, and notorious among elder-law attorneys for making family visits difficult. Two years earlier, the state had investigated complaints that residents were being heavily sedated without adequate medical justification.
“Why are they sending you there?”
“Because I refused to sign another paper.”
“What paper?”
“They want to sell this house.”
The house had belonged to my parents for forty-six years. My father had restored every room himself. The oak staircase still carried a small dent where Julian and I had crashed a wooden wagon when we were children.
“Did you see the document?”
“Only the top page. It had the name of a company.”
“Do you remember it?”
Her brow tightened.
“Silver… Silver Crown.”
