“Roses are red, violets are blue, we don’t want a sick grandma, Christmas is not for you.”

Marisol stood beside my son Trevor’s chair, looking delighted with herself. Trevor laughed until tears came to his eyes, while my grandchildren watched my face, waiting to learn whether the joke was supposed to hurt. I had cooked most of that dinner. My grandmother’s angel still hung on the Christmas tree. When I quietly asked where I was expected to spend Christmas, Marisol smiled and said there were places for people in my situation.

For eight months, my early-stage Parkinson’s had been turned into evidence against me. I still drove, cooked, paid my bills, and managed my own home, but Trevor kept asking what would happen if I fell or left the stove on. He never sounded frightened. He sounded prepared. So I called Everett Sloane, arranged a flat and neurologist in Valencia, and prepared to leave. But before I went, Everett handed me a sealed document he had discovered months earlier—one that changed everything.