Twenty-eight hours on the ward, and I came home to find a second refrigerator humming beside mine. My daughter-in-law looked at my hospital badge and calmly told me the refrigerator belonged to her. From now on, she said, I should buy my own food. Everything I had purchased that morning—$415 worth—was marked with yellow tape bearing her name. My son stood behind her, rubbing his tired eyes and telling me not to make it a big deal. “Everyone needs boundaries,” he said.

By Friday, her name was taped to my shampoo and even the white casserole dish my late husband had given me. Then Wesley ate cereal I had paid for before suggesting that perhaps I should find somewhere else to live if the house made me uncomfortable. I said nothing. Instead, I started watching. I noticed the locked refrigerator, the midnight grocery bags, and my mailbox key disappearing after eighteen years. Then I found an envelope hidden behind the frozen peas, and what was inside changed everything.