I did it because the glass was dirty and it was my mother’s sink.

But standing there with the water running, I understood that this, too, was part of taking the house back, the part no lawyer could do.

Then I took out my phone, and I called the hotel suite.

My mother answered on the second ring, her voice small and uncertain, the voice of a woman who had spent two years braced for bad news.

“Mom,” I said, and I heard my own voice go soft.