At exactly 7:00 Tuesday morning, my Brooklyn kitchen smelled like surface cleaner instead of coffee. Sloan, my daughter-in-law, had decided my drip machine was unhygienic and hidden it away. Then she announced that, starting next month, I would owe $800 in rent for my downstairs room.

I stared at her. This was the house I had bought and maintained for decades, the home I had opened to Sloan and Gavin when they were drowning in debt. I had given them the entire second floor and never charged them a cent. Sloan calmly reminded me that the deed was in Gavin’s name because I had transferred it to avoid probate. Gavin said nothing. But I knew something they had forgotten: I still paid the property taxes, insurance, heating oil, internet, maintenance, and nearly every other invisible expense keeping that house running. I walked upstairs, opened my laptop, and searched for a moving company. Then I pulled up the listing for my lakeside condo in New Hampshire. For the first time in two years, I realized I had another home—and I knew exactly what I was going to do.