I began visiting Pop every single day. I documented everything—his temperature, his condition, his meals, the room readings. I even brought my own thermometer.
One afternoon, I found him curled inward, shaking. The room read fifty-eight degrees.
He squeezed my hand. “Is it me… or is it always this cold?”
“It’s cold,” I told him gently.
He sighed. “Diane never forgave me. I remind her too much of her mother.”
Then he added, quietly, “She called last week. Told them not to let you visit.”
My stomach dropped. “Did they?”
He shook his head faintly. “The young nurse said no. She likes your cookies.”
That nurse—Maggie—confirmed it later. She’d logged the call. Word for word.
That documentation became critical.
Two weeks later, we filed the petition.
Diane exploded.
She stormed into the nursing home, flung open the director’s office door, and shouted, “You let her challenge me? She isn’t even blood!”
I was sitting there calmly, tea in hand.
“You failed him,” I said. “And he’s not something you abandon because it’s inconvenient.”
She sneered. “You were married in for five years and now you think you’re some savior?”
“I’m not,” I replied. “I just won’t let an old man freeze.”
The director intervened. Diane threatened lawyers.
Right on cue, Colin walked in with a file under his arm.
The next month was exhausting—hearings, testimony, depositions. Several nurses spoke. The director admitted Diane’s instructions caused discomfort.
Then came the turning point.
A senior nurse named Brenda produced a voicemail Diane had left on the main line.
In it, Diane said:
“If he passes soon, that’s fine. I’m tired of paying.”
The courtroom went silent.
Pop was lucid that day. Wrapped in a blanket, holding my hand, he answered the judge’s question clearly.
“I want Anne making decisions,” he said. “She’s the one who comes.”
The ruling followed swiftly.
