A beat. “I sold the house, Emily. The closing’s expedited. The funds wire to the hospital Monday morning.”

“No!” I screamed. This house was her sanctuary, the only thing she owned.

She had spent years tending the little garden out front, painting the walls, making it a home.

“You can’t do that! Where are we going to live?”

“We’re moving into the Oak Street Apartments,” she said calmly — a rundown complex near the hospital. “It’s small, but it’s close to your treatment.”

“Emily, bricks and wood mean nothing to me if you aren’t inside them. You are my home. The house is just a building.”