Yellow roses had been Nora’s favorite; I had learned it from the way she talked about her old garden, and I kept them in the house now, always, a small standing act of remembrance.

“How’s the tea, Mom?” I called.

She took a slow, appreciative sip and looked back at me with bright, clear eyes.

“It’s perfect,” she said.

“But you’ve been at that fence since eight this morning.

Come sit down before your own tea gets cold.” And there it was again, the thing that undid me every time.

Are you working too hard.

Come sit down.