Daniel looked at me. “Mom, we can discuss this later.”

“No.”

He blinked. “No?”

“You had three years to discuss how I lived in this house. You chose this morning to end the discussion.”

Harold reached for my larger suitcase and lifted it himself. The driver moved to help; Harold shook his head. “I’ve got this one.” The gesture was small, but it mattered.

For years people had handed me things to carry — laundry, groceries, children, expectations. Harold lifted my suitcase as though the weight I carried deserved to be shared.