That afternoon, I went to the bank.

Years earlier, after Arthur died, I had added David to my checking account for emergencies.

I had nearly forgotten about it.

“I’d like a new account in my name only,” I told the teller. “And deactivate the cards connected to the old one.”

Walking out of that bank felt surprisingly good.

Then I went grocery shopping.

Salmon.

Vegetables.

A bottle of wine.

Everything I wanted.

Nothing for David.

Nothing for Sarah.

That evening, David opened the refrigerator.

“Mom, where’s my meal prep? Where’s the protein powder?”

“I only shopped for myself.”

Silence.

Over the next few days, more things changed.

I stopped doing their laundry.

Stopped buying their groceries.

And when David complained that the Wi-Fi wasn’t working, I calmly explained that I had changed the password.

His jaw dropped.

“We live here too!”

“Then you’re welcome to arrange and pay for your own service.”

He stared at me in disbelief.

I smiled.

“You said I was a burden, David. I’m simply making sure you no longer have to carry me.”

He called me unreasonable.

Then he made the mistake of comparing me to a stingy landlord.

“A landlord collects rent,” I reminded him. “You haven’t paid any in eight months.”

That ended the conversation.

But I wasn’t finished.

I made one more phone call.

To a real-estate agent.

“I’d like a valuation,” I said. “I’m thinking about selling my house.”