I sat very still when Mr. Caldwell showed me the paperwork. Melissa had not driven over that afternoon for casual measurements. She had already filed to gut and rebuild my kitchen—the room where Walter’s peanut butter used to sit, where the twins had learned to make pancakes. She had done it without asking me, confident that the access file would let her push the project through while I was away buying tomatoes. My address was printed at the top of the request, her name at the bottom, and a start date had already been set for the following week.

I stared at the screen, hardly believing what I was seeing. This was my house, my kitchen, my memories, and somehow someone else had begun making decisions about all three. I asked Mr. Caldwell to cancel the request. He did it while I watched, then removed Melissa’s name from every record and updated the emergency file to mine alone. He printed copies of everything and handed them to me. I drove home with the folder on the passenger seat, thinking the worst was finally over. Then, just as the sun began to disappear behind the geraniums, my phone started ringing…