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When I leave his room, I hug him carefully and promise I'll come back tomorrow.

I'm almost at the front doors when someone calls after me.

"Ms. Taylor? Sorry—one moment."

I turn, purse over my shoulder, keys already in hand. A woman from the billing office is hurrying toward me with a clipboard.

"I just need your signature on an updated consent form before you go."

I blink at her. "For what?"

"For billing authorization." She offers me a polite, practiced smile. "The payer on your father's account was updated yesterday, and we need your consent on file for the Kauffman trust to assume payment of all covered expenses going forward."

I go still.

"The Kauffman trust?"

"Yes, ma'am." She glances down at the form. "They've assumed financial responsibility for his care."

I take the clipboard automatically, eyes already moving over the page.

And then I see it.

Kauffman Trust assumes full monetary responsibility for the cost of care for Henry Taylor indefinitely, or until he no longer requires inpatient or outpatient services during his lifetime.

My breath catches.

"Indefinitely?"

The woman nods. "That's what was entered into the file yesterday."

I look back down at the form.

Indefinitely.

Not for the year. Not through the term of the marriage. Not until the original agreement expires.

Indefinitely.

"That's not what we agreed to," I say quietly.

The woman's face does that careful thing—sympathy plus distance, the look of someone who has wandered into a mess that isn't hers and would very much like to back out of it.

"I'm sorry," she says gently. "I only know what's in the account notes."

Of course she doesn't.

I sign because what else am I supposed to do? Refuse the money on principle and punish my father because a man I married blew through every principle I thought I understood?

The pen is slippery in my hand.

By the time I hand the clipboard back, I'm shaking again. Not crying. Just shaken. Hands, chest, somewhere behind my ribs.

I walk out to my car, get in, shut the door, and immediately pull out my phone.

Brookhaven says Dad's account is covered indefinitely now. What did you do?

I hit send, then I stare at the screen like I can force the answer to arrive if I glare hard enough.