The next morning, Emma responded with a nonchalant tone, suggesting we meet for coffee. Her message, though polite, was devoid of urgency. I agreed, setting the meeting for later that afternoon. Until then, I dug through more mail, discovering an increasing number of documents addressed to my mother.

It was as if pieces of a puzzle were scattered before me, each one more confounding than the last. I found another envelope, this time from her insurance, referencing a claim number I didn’t recognize. I noted it down, my list of questions growing longer.

When I finally met Emma at the café, she greeted me with her usual warm smile, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. We exchanged pleasantries before I dove into the matter.

“Emma, I found some medical bills for Mom at my house. Why am I just now finding out about this?” I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral.

Her response was calm, as if she had rehearsed it. “She didn’t want to worry you, especially with everything you’ve been dealing with.”

I nodded, absorbing her words, but the unease remained.

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