He moved into a sprawling glass-fronted townhouse across the city and offered a charming, reasonable smile.

“We’re mature adults, Audrey,” he’d said, standing in the barren hallway of the home we once shared.

“There’s no reason to make this complicated with lawyers and court orders. I’ll take care of you and Nolan. I promise.”

Within three months, the transfers stopped. He stopped answering my calls.

My mother, Ruth, moved into our apartment soon after.

She arrived on a rainy Tuesday with one battered suitcase, her reliable slow cooker, and enough determination to anchor a battleship. She didn’t ask permission.