Kendra smiled across my kitchen and casually announced that her father would soon be living there. His lease was already canceled, she said, and the guest room would be his next month. I slowly set down my teacup. Roland looked embarrassed and quietly said he didn’t want to become a burden. Trevor stared at his pie and insisted that wasn’t what anyone meant.

My name is Marlene Hargrove. I’m sixty-six and widowed. Warren and I bought this house thirty-four years ago, when the mortgage barely fit our budget. We built the porch, repaired the bathrooms, and planted the sycamore when Trevor started kindergarten. Warren has been gone for five years, but every room still carries a piece of our life. I told Kendra no. Roland was welcome at dinner, but he was not moving into my home. She looked surprised and said they had already arranged everything. Then, two days later, she walked through my front door carrying storage bins.