Natalie would no longer inherit the house, savings, or life insurance. Instead, I wanted Thomas’s name attached to something that could help families long after we were gone. Howard warned me she might challenge my decisions, claim I wasn’t thinking clearly, or never forgive me. I picked up the pen anyway. “She told me to learn to manage on my own,” I said. “So that’s exactly what I’m doing.” But changing my will was only the beginning. Together, Howard and I began creating the Thomas Whitfield House, a transitional home for widowed parents and their children.

The house on Linden Street would have six bedrooms, a shared kitchen, a small library, and a sunny homework room. My savings and life insurance would fund it, along with money for repairs, a director, and emergencies such as car repairs, dental bills, school trips, and winter coats. I didn’t want families to wait until after my death to benefit. I wanted to start immediately. A social worker named Denise Okafor had told me that her bereavement program turned away six or seven families every month because there was nowhere to send them. Now, there would be a place.