At My Son’s Queens Kitchen, He Told Me To Pack A Bag If I Refused Assisted Living. “Then Leave My House,” He Said. I Smiled, Closed My Old Suitcase, And Walked To The Door—Just As A Black Limousine Pulled Up Outside.

we walked into the offices of Samson & Associates, a sleek law firm high above midtown, all walnut paneling, muted art, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the East River.

Oliver Samson met us himself in the lobby.

He was bald, sharp-eyed, meticulous, with the manner of a man who preferred facts to theater.

“Mrs. Catherine,” he said, shaking continue reading …