PART 4: The House with My Name in Its History

My former condo had been on the west side, overlooking a line of maples and a parking lot.

It wasn’t grand.

But it was mine.

After thirty-six years of factory shifts and school-cafeteria lunches, I’d paid off every cent.

Daniel had visited on a rainy Sunday five years earlier, carrying drawings of a sprawling suburban house and talking about building a place where three generations could live together.

“Think about it, Mom,” he’d said.