I have thought about that date more than any other date in this account and I want to try to say why.

In the August of 2016 my grandmother was eighty years old and living alone in that house and perfectly well.

She had another eight years and two months in front of her.

Nothing was happening.

There was no crisis, no diagnosis, no argument that anybody in that family remembers.

And she got a bus to the end of Stanton Street, and walked two blocks, and went into a bank, and asked for a form, and named me.

Eight years.