My daughter-in-law laughed as she gave me a $2 scratch-off for my 73rd birthday. Ten months later, my own son shoved a senior living brochure in front of me and said, “We already picked your room.” They thought I was too old to fight back. They had no idea what I had been hiding.

I expected anger to rise.

Instead, I remembered small things: Sophie’s first lost tooth, Lucas building a fort with couch cushions, Arthur’s photograph on the mantel after the funeral.

The house had contained love as well as hurt.

Neither fact erased the other.

Richard called while I was standing by the kitchen window.

“Have you made a decision about the property?”

“Not yet,” I said.

“I don’t want the next chapter of my life organized around proving a point.”