I moved into a small downstairs sewing room and kept a private corner with a bed, reading chair, and garden view. I ordered groceries online, learned to arrange rides on my phone, joined an arthritis stretching class, and bought a little red suitcase. Judith and I even planned a spring trip to Portugal. I was learning to manage beautifully. My granddaughter Lily, fifteen and thoughtful, was the one person who knew everything. She began visiting after school, supposedly for a study group, and helped me look over the plans. When she saw the name Thomas Whitfield House, she traced the letters with her finger and called it the nicest thing anyone had ever built.

Howard also created separate trusts for Lily and Owen, protected in their own names until they turned twenty-five. On December first, invitations went out for a New Year’s Eve supper at the house. Natalie waited nine days before replying, then said they would try to stop by for an hour. At a quarter past seven, she and Greg arrived with their coats still on. But when Natalie stepped through the doorway, she stopped. The room was filled with families, volunteers, warm lamps, and folding tables. Above the fireplace hung a banner: THE THOMAS WHITFIELD HOUSE.