Davis DeGregory, my brother’s attorney, clears his throat. “I can assure you this is correct. You’re the beneficiary of the farm, all businesses relating to the farm, and all of the family’s assets, assuming you take custody of Isabella.”
I press my palm into one eye and then the other before I mumble into the phone, “So the will doesn’t list my parents or maybe one of Melissa’s relatives? I just don’t see why they’d consider me.” Cal and I weren’t talking. He knew I was pissed. “Is it possible the forms are outdated?”
“No, we spoke last month. Your brother found out Melissa was pregnant again, and he wanted to make sure she’d be cared for in the event something happened to him, so he executed a will. Had he been the only one who passed, his wife would have been the beneficiary. But in the event something happened to both of them, everything defaults to you. Both signed the documents.”
My head is reeling. “He didn’t think our parents would be a better choice?”
“He said your father had health issues.”
“And Melissa didn’t have any relatives?”
The sound of papers shuffling in the background comes through the line. “Not that I’m aware of. Except…”
“Except what?”
“They mentioned a friend. Someone who lives on the farm. I think they considered her as a potential legal guardian should you decline custody.” He pauses. “Here it is. Katherine Duran. She’s the woman who cared for Isabella in your absence, correct?”
“Yes.”
“You’re lucky she was there to care for the child. Dealing with Social Services is a nightmare, and that's where Isabella would've gone without a family friend to intervene. In any event, Cal and Melissa decided you were more appropriate since you’re related, but they thought Katherine was a strong candidate to get custody of their daughter, which is why I didn’t object to her caring for Isabella until you arrived. However, if you decide to decline conservatorship, the state then looks toward a child’s grandparents as the next suitable option.”
Why the fuck would I decline custody? And they considered giving Izzy to Katherine over our parents?
“You’re saying the state of Texas is just going to hand me a child?”
“You’re a blood relative, and you’re listed on the will. So, basically, yes.”
“And Child Protective Services doesn’t need to make sure I’m not a bank robber or anything?”
He chuckles. “With no history of abuse here, CPS doesn’t get involved. But I will need you to sign off on a full background check to ensure you don't have a criminal history." He pauses briefly. "You don't have a criminal background, do you?"
"Surprisingly, no."
He laughs again. "That's good. You'll need to hire a social worker—I have a few you can call. He or she will need to come to your house for an interview, but that’s pretty much the extent of the state’s inquiry into your suitability.”
“How many visits does the social worker make?” If I had to guess, I'd say a dozen. We're talking about handing the welfare of a child to someone named in a will. If Izzy were my baby, I'd want at least that many visits to make sure the person wasn't some closet drunk or dope fiend. Fuck me sideways. How will I deal with a dozen visits?
Sweat beads my brow, and I grip the phone and await his answer.
“Just once. The person will conduct an interview and walk through the house to make sure it's inhabitable. The rest of the process is pretty simple. I file a few documents. You come before the court and swear to take care of Isabella. You pay the fee—about seven hundred dollars—and that's it.” He lowers his voice. “We'll also need death certificates, but I'll handle that. Can you get me a copy of the baby's birth certificate?”
I mumble yes even though I have no clue. Maybe Katherine knows where Cal kept those records.
Closing my eyes, I wade through a dark tide of emotion. “How long does this process take?”
“Two to three months typically.”
Two to three months. Did I really expect to head home sooner with a child and a farm to look after?
When I get off the phone, I’m nauseous.
All this time I'd been thinking Cal was a delinquent for not coming back to Boston, but here he was, making out a will and taking care of his family.
A deep ache in my gut starts to spread as the realization of what all of this means.
My brother gave me Izzy. The farm. His life insurance policy. Everything.
He thinks I’d be a good parent? A single, twenty-six-year-old tattoo artist who rides a Harley and hasn’t a clue what the fuck he’s doing with his life? What the hell was he thinking? Before this week, I’d never even held a baby.
I may have changed a diaper or two in the last twenty-four hours, but that doesn’t qualify me to be a parent or guardian or whatever this is.
A dozen scenarios race through my head. What am I supposed to do when Izzy gets sick and wants her mom to comfort her? Or when she wants her real parents to come to the open house at her school? Or when… Oh, Jesus. Someday she’ll date, and I’ll have to kill the poor asshole who thinks he’s getting his hands on that little angel.