The old den with the cabinet full of board games.

The backyard where Dad once built us a wooden swing.

After Dad died, Mom clung to the house.

I understood that.

Part of why I helped with the bills was because I didn’t want her forced out of the place that held most of her adult life.

The house mattered to her.

It mattered to us.

What I didn’t understand was when helping preserve it became an obligation she believed she could enforce through my children.