A woman picked her up and said you approved it.”

My heart dropped.

“What woman?” I asked, nearly breathless. “I didn’t approve anything. I’m her only daughter.”

The receptionist hesitated. “She said she was your sister. Melissa… or Marlena?”

My stomach turned. “You mean Marla?”

That name hadn’t crossed my lips in six years.

Marla is my half-sister. Same dad, different moms. She’s a whirlwind—charming, chaotic, and never around long enough to clean up the mess she leaves behind. She hadn’t spoken to Mom since their blowout over Dad’s inheritance.

So why now?

I stood in that lobby, clutching the banana bread, unsure what to do. I called Mom’s phone—straight to voicemail. I tried Marla—number disconnected. I called the nursing home director, furious.

Turns out Marla showed up with a notarized document granting her temporary medical authority. And Mom didn