“Your own downstairs suite.

A porch.

A garden.

No stairs to climb when your knees get worse.”

I remembered laughing because there wasn’t a suite on the drawings.

“We’ll figure that part out,” he assured me.

At the closing, a young lawyer had explained that the money I contributed was not simply disappearing into my son’s account.

There was a promissory note and a recorded security instrument protecting my interest in the property.