“Sit down, Vera,” she said.

Her voice carried that sugary sweetness she always used when she wanted something.

She had been married to Dominic for eight years and had never once called me Mom.

I stayed standing.

“Someone is going to explain that sign to me.”

Dominic rubbed the back of his neck.

He had inherited that nervous habit from his father.

“Mom, Amber and I have been talking. We think it’s time for you to make a transition.”

“A transition?”

“You’re getting older,” he said carefully. “This house is becoming too much for you.”

“I take care of this house perfectly well.”

My voice was sharper than I intended.

“I’ve maintained it longer than you’ve been alive.”

Amber gave a small laugh.

“Vera, no one is saying you haven’t tried. But we need to be realistic. You’re sixty-two. Things are only going to become more difficult.”

Sixty-two.

She said it as though I were ninety-two.

As though the woman who still mowed her own lawn, managed her finances, cooked every meal, drove herself everywhere, and volunteered at the library twice a week had suddenly become incapable of independent life.

“The house sold yesterday,” Dominic said.

I stared at him.

“What?”

“We received an offer for two hundred fifty thousand dollars. The buyers want to close next week.”

The number struck me almost as hard as the betrayal.

Harold and I had bought the house for thirty-five thousand dollars decades earlier.

Since then, we had replaced the roof, remodeled the kitchen, added a sunroom, landscaped the yard, and poured thirty-five years of work and love into every corner.

It was where I had raised my children.

Where birthdays had been celebrated.

Where Christmas mornings had unfolded.

Where Harold and I had shared almost four decades together.

Where I had mourned him after losing him three years earlier.

“You can’t sell my house,” I whispered.

Dominic finally looked at me.

“Actually, Mom, I can.”

He opened his briefcase and removed a folder.

“Remember the power of attorney you signed when Dad was sick?”

My stomach tightened.

Of course I remembered.

I had signed documents in a hospital waiting room while Harold was fighting for his life.

Dominic had told me it was simply to help handle medical matters and insurance if I became overwhelmed.