“My pension doesn’t cover a nine-hundred-forty-dollar monthly mortgage,” she said, her voice shaking without any of its usual polish.

“It never did.”

“Then you’ll have to sell the brick house,” I said.

She looked up at me, her eyes wide, wet, and emptied of all their authority.

“How can you look at me like I’m some stranger on the street?” she asked.

“I’m not here to punish you, Mom,” I said.

“I’m here to leave.”

I turned away from the sofa, crossed the living room carpet, and stepped over the threshold into the hall.