My late patient’s children threw me out without my final paycheck the day after his funeral. Five days later, they called me back in panic—and under his bed waited a wooden chest with my name on it and a letter that began, “Open this only after my children show you who they really are.”
People called Arthur Whitmore impossible. His neighbors called him bitter. His children called him stubborn. The agency that hired me simply called him “a difficult long-term assignment.” They warned me …
My late patient’s children threw me out without my final paycheck the day after his funeral. Five days later, they called me back in panic—and under his bed waited a wooden chest with my name on it and a letter that began, “Open this only after my children show you who they really are.” Read More
