She leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting to the window where the rain had started to fall again, tapping against the glass.

“He thinks because I have one arm, I am fragile,” she said, her voice dropping an octave. “He thinks I am someone who needs to be taken care of.”

“You are stronger than he will ever understand,” I said.

“I want him to come here tomorrow,” she said, looking back at me. “I want him to sit in our living room and believe that he has convinced us.”

“And then what?” I asked.

“I will ask him to explain things to me,” she said. “I will ask him to explain why he left, and what he plans to do with my future.”

“He will lie,” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “But he will also have to justify the co-conservatorship. He will have to talk about the money, and his plans for it.”

She reached into her cardigan pocket and pulled out her smartphone.

It was a standard model, slightly scratched at the corners, but she handled it with incredible speed using her thumb.