My son Daniel offered me a room in his basement for $950 a month, nearly two-thirds of my Social Security income. In exchange, I was expected to babysit his four children four days a week to “earn my keep.” I was sixty-four years old, a widower who had spent his life working hard to give Daniel a better future.

When his wife, Melissa, slid a piece of paper across the kitchen table with the amount circled twice, I felt something inside me break. The basement had one tiny window, a narrow bed, and the smell of damp cardboard. My five-year-old grandson Noah followed us downstairs and asked, “Grandpa, are you going to live in the under?” I smiled at him, but I couldn’t answer honestly. I was afraid that refusing my son’s offer might cost me my place in his life.