“He was my safe harbor in this cruel world,” she whispered into the dim room before she shut her eyes.

A few days later, my mother slipped away peacefully into the quiet Minnesota evening.

After the memorial service, distant relatives packed Mom’s tiny house with trays of cold cuts and empty condolences.

Uncle Patrick stood by the hallway linen closet, already rifling through cardboard boxes marked in black marker.

“Just what are you looking for in my mother’s private things, Patrick?” I asked, stepping into the hallway.

He turned and gave me the smooth, calculated smile he always used to calm his clients.