"They thought whoever kept Dad would get the house, so they dragged his wheelchair between them until he finally raised one document."

CHAPTER 1: The Chair Between Them

They thought whoever kept Dad would get the house, so they dragged his wheelchair between them until he finally raised one document.

Arthur Whitman sat in the middle of his own living room with a blanket over his legs, listening to his children argue about him like he was already gone.

Rain tapped against the windows.

The old grandfather clock ticked beside the hallway.

On the coffee table, next to a half-empty glass of water and his medication organizer, sat the brown inheritance folder Mark had brought in from Arthur’s study without asking.

Arthur had watched his son do it.

He had watched his daughter notice it.

And now both of them stood on either side of his wheelchair, gripping the handles so tightly their knuckles looked white.

“I’m taking care of Dad,” Mark snapped, pointing in Elise’s face. “The house should be mine.”

Elise slapped his hand away. “You ignored him for ten years. Don’t pretend you love him now.”

Mark’s jaw tightened.

Then he pulled the wheelchair toward him.

The movement was small, but Arthur felt it through his whole body.

The wheels jerked over the rug. His blanket slipped from one knee. His trembling hand grabbed the armrest.

“Mark,” Arthur whispered.

But Elise yanked the chair back toward her.

“Don’t touch him like that,” she said, though her own hands were still pulling.

Arthur’s heart beat painfully against his ribs.

He was seventy-eight years old. He had survived two surgeries, one stroke, and the slow, humiliating loss of being able to walk across his own living room without help.

But nothing had made him feel weaker than this.

His children were fighting over who got to keep him.

Not love him.

Keep him.

Like a suitcase.