Sherry went home to think.

The grab bar went in.

The laundry came upstairs.

And one evening, near the end of Enid’s recovery, she was watching me send my mother to voicemail again, and this time she did not let it go.

“Sit down,” she said, in the voice that did not permit argument.

And she told me a thing she had never told me.

Enid had a fourth child.