Later that afternoon, Clinton came by.

He kept his heavy winter coat on, standing in my living room with the braced posture of a man expecting an unpleasant conversation.

“Mom, Aunt Shirley called me today,” he began, nervously.

“She’s really worried about you.

And honestly — so am I.”

“Are you, Clinton?” I looked him dead in the eye.

“Are you really worried about me?”

“You shouldn’t be living alone in this big house at your age, Mom.