Every morning begins the same way for me: the creak of the floorboards under my feet, the smell of coffee, and the quiet rustle of calendar pages as I cross out another day. My house in Denwitty is old, like most of the houses in our town—two stories high, with chipped paint on the facade and a creaky porch. It has witnessed sixty-five years of my life.

My name is Nella Hammond. I’ve worked at the local post office for twenty years, sorting the letters and packages that come into our little town. No, it’s not the job I dreamed of when I was young, but it’s kept me afloat since Earl, my husband, died. He passed away five years ago. A heart attack took him so quickly that I didn’t even have time to say goodbye.

That Wednesday morning, I got up at six as usual, made coffee and oatmeal, and turned on the radio. The announcer mumbled something about fuel prices going up. News like that used to make me anxious. Now I’ve learned to ignore what I can’t change.

“Another day, Earl,” I said, looking at his picture on the kitchen table—Earl grinning as he showed off the huge trout he caught on Lake Chesco. Fishing was one of his few weaknesses. Otherwise, Earl was frugal to the point of miserliness. “Every penny counts, Nella,” he’d say, scrutinizing the electric bill or refusing a new shirt because the old one was still wearable. Thanks to his frugality, we had a small savings—nothing grandiose, twenty-eight thousand dollars in a bank account—and a house whose mortgage had long been paid off. To many people that might seem like a small thing. To me, it was a safety cushion for illness or other unforeseen circumstances.

After finishing my coffee, I put on my postal worker’s uniform, a light-blue shirt with an emblem on the pocket. Twenty minutes later I was standing at the sorting table in our small post office.

“Good morning, Nella,” Doris said. She’s the only coworker who shares my morning shift. Doris is ten years younger than me, but she’s already complaining of arthritis in her fingers.

“How are you today?”

“The usual,” I said, pulling on my work gloves. “Coffee, radio, and talking to my husband’s picture. I guess I’m becoming that crazy old lady the kids talk about.”

Doris laughed. “You’re far from crazy—just peculiar.”

I smiled. I like that nobody in our little crew takes life too seriously. We crack jokes while we sort the mail, and the day goes faster.

“Keith called,” Doris added, handing me a stack of envelopes. “He asked when you finish today.”

I sighed. Keith, my only son, is a complicated man. At thirty-nine, he still hasn’t learned to stand on his own two feet. As a child he was a sweet boy with dimples and blond hair like Earl’s. He’d sit on the porch waiting for his father to come home and was always the first to run to him. But adolescence changed everything. Keith started hanging out with the wrong kids, skipping school. At sixteen, he was caught shoplifting. Earl was hard on him—“A guy’s got to take responsibility for his actions.” I always defended my son, finding excuses for his behavior. Maybe that was my mistake.

When Keith turned eighteen, he dropped out of school and got a job at a machine shop. He stayed there three months. Then it was construction, a gas station, a delivery service. He never lasted long anywhere. Then came the loans. At first, small amounts.

“Mom, I need fifty dollars before payday. I’ll pay you back next month. I promise.”

But he never paid it back. The amounts got bigger.

“What did he want this time?” I asked Doris, though I already knew.

“He didn’t say,” she shrugged.

Her voice was tense. It meant Keith was in trouble again.

I kept sorting, trying not to think about the conversation I knew was coming. Over the years I’ve learned to identify the contents of envelopes by their shape and weight. Thick, formal envelopes usually contain bills or notices. Thin, colorful envelopes are advertisements. Handwritten letters are rare in this digital age.

At noon I took a break and crossed the street to the little café. Sitting by the window with a cup of tea, I watched Keith’s tattered sedan pull into the lot. He turned off the engine but didn’t get out right away. On the phone, he gesticulated, his face drawn with concern. Finally he came in. His jeans looked new, and a watch I’d never seen glinted on his wrist. I wondered where he’d gotten the money.

“Hi, Mom,” he said as he sat across from me. He tried to smile, but it came out strange.

“How are you?”

“Fine,” I said, studying his face. Despite his attempt at nonchalance, there was tension in his eyes. “And you?”

“I’m fine.” He answered too quickly. “Work’s going well. Vera’s happy with her new position at the insurance company. And Pearl—you should see her drawings. She’s becoming a real artist.”

I smiled at the mention of my granddaughter. Pearl—Keith and Vera’s six-year-old daughter—is the light of my life. Unlike her father, she’s responsible beyond her years and tells the truth even when it’s inconvenient.

“I’m glad to hear it,” I said. “I haven’t seen Pearl in a long time. Bring her over this weekend.”

“Sure,” he said, tapping his fingers on the table.

“Look, Mom, I’ve got a little problem. Here it is.”

I knew we’d get to this. “What is it this time?” I asked, keeping my voice as neutral as I could.

“I need to pay for car repairs,” he said, avoiding my gaze. “The transmission’s shot. I can’t work without a car. It’s two thousand dollars, but I only have eight hundred. I’ll pay you back next month. I promise.”

I looked at him, remembering all the earlier promises. How many times had I heard the same words? Dozens? Hundreds? And how many times had he paid anything back? None.

“Keith,” I began. “The last time you asked, it was ‘temporary difficulties.’ And the time before that. I’ve given you almost three thousand in the last six months. Where did it go?”

His face tightened. “I told you. Car loan, house bills, Pearl’s school. Life is expensive, Mom. Not everyone can be as frugal as Dad.”

The mention of Earl prickled. Keith knew it was a sensitive place.

“Your father was frugal because he was thinking about the future,” I said. “Our future—and yours.”

“Yeah, and that’s why we never went anywhere, wore the same clothes for years, lived on the edge of poverty even though we had money.” Keith’s voice sharpened. “What’s the point of saving if you don’t live?”

It was an old argument. Keith always believed Earl and I were too tightfisted, that we were putting life on hold. He didn’t see that because of that frugality I now had a house and a bank account, and he—living for today—was constantly in debt.

“I can give you five hundred,” I said firmly. “No more. And this time I expect a refund.”

His face showed disappointment mixed with relief. “Okay. Thanks. Better than nothing. I’ll take the rest on credit.”

Another loan, I thought, but held my tongue. Keith was an adult making his own choices, even if they were bad ones.

After lunch, Keith left. I went back to the post office with a heavy heart. I love my son, but his constant financial problems weigh me down. Sometimes I wonder what Earl would say about what our boy has become—disappointed in Keith for being irresponsible, disappointed in me for enabling him.

The rest of the day passed in its usual rhythm. I sorted letters, answered questions, filled out forms. The work doesn’t require much thought, which lets me disappear into my own. I thought about Keith, about Pearl, about the money I’d saved for a rainy day. I always imagined that money would be useful in old age when I couldn’t work anymore. But what if Keith kept asking for more? What would be left for me?

At five, I finished my shift and went outside. The fall air was cool, and the leaves were beginning to yellow. I walked home slowly, enjoying the quiet of Denwitty’s small streets. This town never changes. The same stores, the same faces, the same rhythm of life. Everyone knows everyone, and news spreads faster than a grass fire.

At home I made myself a simple dinner: chicken soup and buttered toast. I turned on the TV to fill the silence, but I didn’t really listen. My thoughts kept circling the conversation with Keith. An hour later, the phone rang. It was Vera. Unlike Keith, she has always seemed more responsible—though lately I’d noticed she often backed him when it came to money.

“Hi, Nella,” she said in her soft voice. “How are you?”

“Fine, thank you,” I said. “And you?”

“Fine.” A pause. “Listen, Keith said he talked to you today.”

“I know where this is going,” I said. “Yes, he asked for money to fix his car. I gave him five hundred.”

“He told me.” Vera exhaled. “Look, I know we come to you a lot and I do appreciate it, but the situation is really difficult. Keith’s worried about losing his job without a car.”

“What about your paycheck?” I asked. “You work for an insurance company, don’t you?”

Another pause. “Yes, but we have a lot of expenses. Pearl needs winter boots. There’s the house payment.”

I listened to the familiar litany. There was always some urgent need, some crisis solved only with my money.

“Vera,” I interrupted gently. “As I told Keith, I can only give five hundred. That’s all.”

“But, Nella—”

“I have savings for my old age,” I said firmly. “I won’t be a burden to you when I can’t work anymore, and that’s why I can’t give money away.”

“But we’re family,” she said. “Don’t you want to help your son?”

“I am helping,” I said. “Five hundred is help. The rest, he has to figure out.”

The call ended on a tense note. Vera said they’d bring Pearl over the weekend and hung up. I was left with a mixture of guilt and irritation. Maybe I had been too harsh. Keith is my only child. But another part of me—the part that remembered Earl’s lessons—said I’d done the right thing. Keith would never stand on his own if I kept bailing him out.

Before bed, I checked my bank account online: $28,450. Not much for someone my age, but enough to feel secure. I thought about how hard Earl and I worked to save that money—simple meals, clothes on sale, one vacation every few years. I turned off the computer and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The house was quiet, only the old clock in the living room counting seconds. I thought about Keith, about how he changed when money came up. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was afraid that one day he might do something desperate to get what he thought he was owed. With those thoughts, I fell asleep—unaware that my fears would prove prophetic.

Two weeks passed. In that time, Keith came by twice with Vera and Pearl, which was unusual. They hadn’t visited more than once a month before. I noticed a change. Keith was suddenly attentive. He took an interest in my health, offered to help around the house, even fixed a leaky kitchen faucet I’d been about to call a plumber for. Vera brought home-baked goods and asked at length about my plans.

“Have you thought about moving to a smaller apartment?” she asked last Sunday while helping me wash dishes. “This big house requires so much maintenance, and you’re not young anymore.”

“I like my house,” I said, drying a plate. “I spent my life with Earl here. Besides, what would I do with all my things?”

“You could sell them or give them away.” Vera shrugged. “By the way, Keith’s friend is in real estate. He says it’s a good time to sell.”

I looked at her carefully. There was a new insistence in her voice.

“I’m not going to sell,” I said. “Not as long as I can take care of it.”

She changed the subject, but the conversation stuck with me. Why were they suddenly interested in my house? Why so many visits?

The answer came the next day when Keith called me at work.

“Uh, Mom, listen. I have a little problem,” he began after the usual greetings. “You remember Trevor from school? His brother works at the bank. He told me about a lucrative investment—stock in a tech company about to go public. If you invest now, you can triple it in a month.”

The muscles in my neck tensed. I’ve seen enough letters from scam victims to know that if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is.

“How much?” I asked, already knowing.

“At least five thousand,” Keith said. “But I was thinking ten. Can you imagine? In a month it’d be thirty thousand. We could split the profit.”

“Where are you going to get ten thousand?” I asked, though we both knew the answer.

A pause. “Well, I was thinking maybe you could borrow it. You have savings, and this is a real chance to increase them.”

I silently congratulated myself for never telling Keith the exact amount in my account. He clearly thought I had more than I did.

“Keith, I’m not investing in dubious schemes,” I said. “And neither should you.”

“It’s not dubious,” he objected. “Trevor’s brother is a professional. He knows what he’s doing. It’s insider information, Mom. Opportunities like this don’t come every day.”

“That’s exactly why I’m worried,” I said. “Insider trading is illegal. I want nothing to do with it.”

He sighed. “You’re always like this, afraid to take risks, missing opportunities. That’s why you and Dad spent your lives in this backwater instead of—”

“Instead of what?” I cut in. “Instead of losing everything on a bad tip? Your father was right about saving, and you know it.”

Silence. When he spoke again, his voice was subdued.

“All right. Forget it. I just wanted to help us both make money.”

The conversation ended, leaving me uneasy. It wasn’t Keith’s first questionable idea. Over the past few years, he’d suggested cryptocurrencies, an eco-friendly bag startup, even opening a bakery, though neither he nor Vera had ever baked more than cookies. Each time I declined, and each time he accused me of being too conservative.

The next day Keith called again, his tone completely different.

“Mom, I’m sorry about yesterday. You were right about that investment. I talked to another acquaintance—he said it sounded suspicious.”

I was surprised. Keith doesn’t usually admit mistakes.

“I’m glad you figured it out,” I said.

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Listen, I have a favor. Vera has a doctor’s appointment tomorrow and there’s no one to watch Pearl. Could you keep an eye on her? Two hours tops.”

“Of course,” I said immediately. Despite everything with Keith, I adore my granddaughter. “Bring her over. I’ll be home all day.”

“Thanks, Mom,” he said, relieved. “Oh—and I need to pick up some paperwork from the bank. Could you give me your card? I need to prove I’m your son, and then they’ll show me the inheritance information from Uncle Roy.”

I frowned. Uncle Roy—Earl’s brother—died over ten years ago and left no inheritance.

“What inheritance, Keith? Uncle Roy gave everything to his church.”

“Uh, no. Turns out there was some stock in your name,” he said too quickly. “The bank called me and said I had to come in with proof of parentage.”

Anxiety climbed my ribs. He was lying—but why?

“If the bank wants to contact me about an inheritance, they’ll send a letter or call me directly,” I said. “And they don’t need my card to prove your parentage. A birth certificate will do.”

“But, Mom—”

“I’m not giving you my bank card,” I said. It was about trust, though I didn’t say the word. “If there’s any inheritance, I’ll go to the bank myself.”

A long pause.

“Okay,” he said at last, irritated. “I was just trying to help. But if you don’t trust me—”

“It’s not about trust.” We both knew it was. “It’s just something to be handled in person.”

“Whatever,” he said coldly. “I’ll bring Pearl tomorrow.”

After that call, I couldn’t shake the uneasiness. Why did Keith need my bank card? What was this sudden story about Uncle Roy? That evening, I took my card from my wallet and examined it. The edges were frayed, the numbers wearing off. I rarely use it, preferring cash. Maybe I should order a new one—or, given Keith’s strange behavior, change the PIN.

I called the bank and changed it. Instead of Keith’s birthday—yes, I’d been that predictable—I chose the date Earl and I were married. That calmed me some, but not completely.

I woke early the next morning. A golden fall day—the sun still warm, the air fresh. I opened the windows to air the house and began to prepare for Pearl’s arrival. She loves to draw, so I pulled out the sketchbook and colored pencils I keep just for her. I baked chocolate chip cookies—her favorite. The smell of vanilla and chocolate filled the kitchen, reminding me of when Keith was little and I baked the same cookies for him.

The doorbell rang at eleven sharp. Keith stood on the step holding Pearl’s hand. She smiled when she saw me, and warmth flooded my chest. She’s fair-haired like Keith was as a child, but her eyes are Vera’s dark brown and keen.

“Grandma!” she cried, hugging me. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you, too, sweet girl,” I said, kissing the top of her head. “Come on in. I baked your favorite cookies.”

Pearl scampered to the kitchen. I turned to Keith.

“What time will you be back?”

“About one,” he said, glancing toward the car where Vera waited. “The appointment’s at eleven-thirty, but there’s always a line.”

“We’ll be here,” I said. “Pearl will be fine.”

He hesitated, as if he wanted to say more. Then he nodded and went back to the car. I watched them drive away and couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

Back in the kitchen, Pearl sat at the table eating cookies.

“Yummy,” she said, her mouth full. “Mommy never bakes cookies. She says she doesn’t have time.”

“Well, I have plenty of time,” I said, sitting beside her. “How’s school?”

“Good.” Pearl sipped milk. “I learned to write all the letters—even G and S. They’re the hardest.”

“That’s great,” I said. “What else?”

Pearl told me about her teacher, her friends, the new book they were reading. She talked nonstop, jumping from one thing to another the way children do. I listened, enjoying her enthusiasm and innocence. After cookies, we moved to the living room and she began to draw—tongue peeking out with concentration, just like Keith at her age.

“That’s you, Grandma,” she said, showing me the drawing: a figure with gray hair in a blue postal uniform. “And that’s me. We’re together.”

“It’s beautiful,” I said. “You’re a real artist.”

Pearl beamed and returned to her work. Time passes so quickly. It seems like only yesterday I sat with little Keith like this, a sketchbook between us. And now he has a daughter of his own.

“Grandma,” Pearl said suddenly, not looking up from her drawing. “Why does Daddy want to take your money?”

I froze. “What do you mean, sweetheart?”

She looked up, eyes clear and guileless. “He told Mommy you’re old and don’t know how to spend money properly. He said he’d know better.”

A chill went through me. Keith had discussed my finances with Vera in front of the child.

“When did Daddy say that?” I asked, keeping my voice calm.

“Last night,” Pearl said, going back to her drawing. “They thought I was asleep, but I went to get a drink of water and I heard. Daddy said if you didn’t give him the card, he’d find another way.”

My heart beat harder. So yesterday’s request wasn’t a coincidence. Keith was planning to get access to my money.

“What else did Daddy say?”

“I don’t know.” Pearl shrugged. “I went to bed. But they talk about money a lot when they think I can’t hear. Daddy always says he needs more.”

I stroked her hair, trying to absorb the information without alarming her. She was so innocent, not understanding the weight of her words.

“Pearl,” I said gently. “Sometimes adults say things that aren’t quite right. It’s my money, and I decide how to spend it. Do you understand?”

She nodded. “Like my pencils. I decide which ones I want to draw with.”

“That’s right.”

We spent the rest of the time drawing and reading. Pearl didn’t mention money again, and I didn’t ask. But I couldn’t shake her words.

At two, the doorbell rang. Keith came in looking tense, eyes scanning the room as if searching for something.

“How’d it go?” he asked.

“Fine,” I said. “Pearl was a clever girl, as always. How was the doctor?”

“What? Oh. Fine,” he said absently. “Nothing serious. Vera’s waiting in the car. Pearl, pack up—we’ve got to go.”

“Can I take the drawing?” Pearl asked, showing me the picture of the two of us together.

“Of course,” I said. “And take some cookies for your mom.” I handed her a bag. She ran to the door.

“I’ll be right back. Bathroom,” Keith said, heading toward the back of the house.

“The main bathroom is being renovated,” I lied quickly. “Use the one in the guest room.”

He froze, then nodded and turned the other way. I knew he’d wanted to check my bedroom, where my purse and wallet sat on the dresser.

While he was in the bathroom, I walked Pearl to the car. Vera sat in the passenger seat on her phone. She waved but didn’t get out. When I came back inside, Keith was just coming down the stairs.

“Sorry for the delay,” he said with a strange smile. “We’ll be going.”

“Keith,” I stopped him. “What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?” His face tightened.

“These constant requests for money. Questions about my card. Trying to access my savings.”

“Mom, you’re being paranoid,” he snapped. “I’m trying to help. You’re not getting any younger—you might need support.”

“I don’t need that kind of support,” I said. “And I don’t want you discussing my finances with Vera—especially in front of Pearl.”

His face shifted from irritation to disdain. “She blabbed to you. Damn kid.”

“She didn’t ‘blab’ anything,” I said. “She repeated what she heard. And I’m concerned.”

“We were discussing family finances,” he said, moving toward the door. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“My finances aren’t your family finances,” I said. “Respect that.”

He shrugged. “Whatever. But when you need help, don’t come to me.”

He left, and I stood in the hallway with a heavy heart. I watched their car pull away and wondered how we’d gotten here. When did my son become a man who saw me only as a source of money?

In the kitchen, I looked at Pearl’s drawings. One showed her family—Keith, Vera, herself—smiling and holding hands. So happy, so serene, the way a child sees it. If only reality matched.

My phone rang. Doris.

“Nella, you won’t believe who came by,” she said without preamble. “Your son. He asked when your next shift is and what time you usually eat lunch.”

A chill ran down my spine. “What did you tell him?”

“That I can’t disclose employee schedules,” she said. “He looked disappointed—said he wanted to surprise you.”

“Thank you, Doris. You did the right thing.”

After the call, I stared out the window for a long time. Why did Keith want to know my schedule? What surprise was he planning? I checked my bag—wallet present, card present. But something told me this wasn’t over.

That evening, Keith called.

“Mom,” he said in an unusually soft voice. “I want to apologize for today. You’re right. I shouldn’t have discussed your finances with Vera, especially in front of Pearl. I’m just worried about you.”

I said nothing, unsure whether to believe the sudden remorse.

“Listen,” he went on. “Could you watch Pearl tomorrow? Vera’s got another appointment and I have to work. Couple hours.”

I hesitated. I always want to see my granddaughter, but after today, I wasn’t sure I wanted to see Keith.

“All right,” I said finally. “Bring her, like yesterday.”

“Thanks, Mom. You’re the best. And I’m sorry again.”

When the call ended, I sat with the phone in my hand. Something in his voice made me wary. He rarely apologizes. Why now?

Then it hit me: tomorrow. He’d still bring Pearl. After I refused to give him my card—after it was clear I knew what he was up to—he still wanted access to the house. I remembered Pearl’s words: Daddy said if you didn’t give him the card, he’d find another way.

The anxiety returned. Keith was planning something. But what? How could I protect myself?

I took my wallet from my dresser. The card was there, but was that enough? What if he was planning something else? I went to bed, but sleep wouldn’t come. My thoughts circled Keith, his strange behavior, Pearl’s words. What was he up to? And how could I stop it?

Morning came gray, the sky heavy with rain. I woke to the first struggling rays of light. My sleep had been fitful, full of dreams of Earl trying to tell me something I couldn’t quite hear. At my age, mornings aren’t as kind. My joints complained. My back chimed in. Still, I couldn’t afford to slow down. Not now.

I made toast and strong tea and sat at the kitchen table, watching drizzle bead on the window panes. My thoughts drifted to Keith. When had he changed from the inquisitive child who brought me wildflowers to a man willing to cheat his own mother for money? Maybe I spoiled him. Maybe I wasn’t strict enough. Earl always said I indulged Keith—wouldn’t let him face consequences. Maybe he was right.

I glanced at Earl’s picture on the windowsill—Earl in the garden, shovel in hand. Hardworking, dependable, thorough.

“What would you do if you were me?” I asked the silence. I knew his answer. He had no tolerance for dishonesty and believed everyone should be responsible for their actions. Don’t let anyone—not even your own son—step over you.

That thought gave me resolve. I prepared for their visit, pulling out flour, sugar, eggs—everything I needed to make the pancakes Pearl loves. Cooking always calms me, and I needed a clear head.

At ten, the doorbell rang. Keith stood on the threshold holding Pearl’s hand. She smiled, but looked a little sleepy.

“Hi, Mom,” he said, kissing my cheek. His voice strained under a casual tone. “Thanks for watching Pearl.”

“It’s always good to see my girl,” I said, leaning toward my granddaughter. “How are you, sweetheart?”

“Fine,” Pearl said quietly, clutching her tattered bunny, Hoppy. “I took Hoppy so he wouldn’t get bored.”

“Good idea,” I said, letting them in. “I’ve got pancakes with maple syrup.”

Pearl’s eyes lit up and she ran into the kitchen. Keith stood in the hallway, looking around with a strange expression.

“Looking for something?” I asked.

“Huh? No, just…” He hesitated. “I think you should paint these walls. They’re a little faded.”

“They’ve been that way ten years,” I said. “Not urgent.”

He checked his watch. “I have to go. Vera’s waiting. Appointment at ten-thirty. We’ll be back in an hour, maybe a little later.”

“Take your time,” I said. “Pearl and I have plans.”

He nodded, took another slow look around the hallway, and left. I watched him climb into the passenger seat—odd; he usually drives. Vera pulled away.

Pearl and I ate pancakes. She chattered about school, Ms. Benson, a new girl who’d moved from out of town. Part of me listened; part of me replayed Keith’s behavior.

After breakfast, Pearl asked for cookies for a doll tea party. “It’s Princess Lily’s birthday,” she announced. I poured a few onto a small plate. “Tell the princess congratulations,” I said. She carried them off with the solemnity of a royal envoy.

I finished the chicken noodle soup I’d started for lunch and left it to simmer. Wiping my hands, I checked on Pearl. The dolls sat in a circle with cookies in front of them. Pearl poured imaginary tea from a toy pot.

“How’s the party?” I asked, sitting on the couch.

“Great,” she said. “Everyone came—even Mr. Bumpy, and he’s usually very busy.” Mr. Bumpy is the bear with the torn ear, kept in the toy box.

“Very nice of him,” I said gravely.

Pearl nodded and continued her game. I watched her, marveling at how smart and imaginative she is—so unlike her parents in that way.

“Grandma,” she said suddenly, eyes still on her dolls. “My daddy is going to take your money tonight.”

The words struck like lightning.

“What did you say, Pearl?” I asked carefully.

She looked up. “Daddy told Mommy he’d take your money tonight. They thought I was asleep, but I heard. Daddy said he had a plan.”

My heart pounded. That’s why he was so insistent about bringing her today.

“What else?” I asked, feigning casual interest.

“He said he was going to make a copy of something. I don’t remember the word. And that your money would solve their problems.”

A copy of the card, no doubt. But how—and when?

“What did Mommy say?”

“She was afraid you’d find out,” Pearl said. “But Daddy said it would be all right because…” She hesitated, searching for the words. “Because you don’t check your bill every day.”

It was true. I rarely log in to online banking. I prefer to handle finances at the branch.

“I see,” I said, hiding my anxiety. “Do you know how Daddy’s going to get my money?”

She shook her head. “No. They stopped talking when they saw me. Daddy told me to go to bed. Little girls need lots of rest.”

“You’re right,” I said, stroking her head. “Rest is important.”

She returned to her game, oblivious to the weight of what she’d shared. I sat stunned. Keith was planning to steal my money—my own son.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur. I read to Pearl, but my mind kept spinning. If he wanted to copy my card, he needed access. The card was always in my wallet. Then it hit me: yesterday, when he dropped Pearl off, he asked to use the bathroom. I redirected him to the guest bath. But what if he’d still gone into my bedroom? What if he had already copied the card?

At noon, we ate soup. Pearl talked about her friends and her art teacher. I nodded, barely tasting the food.

Around one, Keith returned.

“Hi, Mom,” he said, looking strangely pleased. “How’d it go?”

“Great,” I said, watching him closely. “Pearl was wonderful, as always.”

“Great.” He patted Pearl’s head. “Come on, sweetheart. Time to go.” While she gathered her drawings, he glanced around as if evaluating the room.

“It’s a beautiful house,” he said. “You might want to think about insurance—in case of fire or theft.”

“I have insurance,” I said. “Your father took care of things like that.”

“Yeah. Dad was thoughtful.” He paused. “By the way, I noticed your credit card looks shabby. Maybe you should order a new one.”

He was feeling me out—trying to see if I had replaced the card.

“Maybe,” I said. “I’ll think about it.”

At last they left. As soon as the car turned the corner, I rushed to my bedroom. My wallet was there. The card was there. At first glance, everything looked normal. Then I noticed the card wasn’t the way I usually place it. I always keep it face up. Now it was face down.

It could have been an accident. Maybe I flipped it myself at the store. But my gut said Keith had got to it.

What to do? Call the bank and block it? But what if I was wrong? What if I was inventing things out of fear? No. I couldn’t ignore what Pearl said. Children don’t lie about these things, especially when they don’t understand them.

I checked the time: two o’clock. The bank was open until five. I had time.

The decision came suddenly. I wouldn’t just block the card. I’d withdraw all the money from the account. If Keith tried to take anything, he would find nothing there.

I changed clothes, grabbed my bag, and left. The rain had stopped. The streets were wet and the air smelled clean. I walked as quickly as my legs would carry me.

The local branch sits in the center of Denwitty, a twenty-minute walk from my house—a small building with a blue sign and glass doors. Inside, it smelled of paper and cool air.

“What can I do for you?” the young woman at the window asked with a professional smile.

“I’d like to withdraw all the money from my account,” I said, keeping my voice steady.

Her eyebrows rose slightly. “The entire balance? May I ask the reason?”

“Personal circumstances,” I said. “I need the cash.”

She nodded, curiosity in her gaze. “Of course. I’ll need your ID.”

I handed her my driver’s license and card. She checked the documents, then typed on her computer.

“Mrs. Hammond, you have twenty-eight thousand four hundred fifty dollars. Are you sure you want to withdraw the entire amount in cash?”

“Yes,” I said firmly. “And I’d like to open a new account—at another branch if possible.”

She blinked. “We can arrange that. Which branch?”

I thought fast. “Chesterfield.” It’s a thirty-minute drive from Denwitty. Keith rarely goes there.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll prepare the paperwork.”

While she worked, I watched people come and go—ordinary people doing ordinary things, unaware of the drama unfolding in my life.

The process took about an hour. First, she handed me the cash, wads of bills that barely fit in my bag. Then we filled out forms to open a new account at the Chesterfield branch. She explained details, including the new card I’d receive in a week.

“Your new account is active,” she said at last. “You can deposit cash now if you want.”

I nodded and handed back the bills, keeping only five hundred for expenses. She counted, stamped a receipt, and slid it across to me.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You’re welcome, Mrs. Hammond. If you have any questions, please reach out.”

When I stepped outside, I felt strangely light. The weight of the last few days had lifted. My money was safe. Keith wouldn’t be able to get it.

At home, I put the bank papers in a safe place—an old tin cookie box on the top pantry shelf. Keith has never looked there. I made a simple dinner and listened for footsteps, a knock, the phone. Nothing. No calls, no visits. I tried to read, but my thoughts kept returning to Keith and Pearl’s words.

Before bed, I checked the locks on doors and windows. Denwitty is a safe town. Still, I felt vulnerable. I lay awake, wondering what tomorrow would bring. Would Keith find out? How would he react?

I slept fitfully and woke at four with a heavy heart. The morning was overcast, a light drizzle tapping the windows. I made tea and watched the town wake up—my neighbor fetching the paper, a woman walking her dog under a big umbrella. An ordinary morning. But for me, the day would not be ordinary.

I didn’t go to work. I called Doris and told her I wasn’t feeling well. She agreed to cover without question. Doris knows when not to ask.

The morning dragged. I cleaned the house, went through old photos, baked an apple pie—anything to keep my hands busy. What would Keith do when he discovered he couldn’t withdraw money from my account?

The answer came around three o’clock. The phone rang sharply. Keith’s name flashed on the screen. I took a breath and answered.

“Hello, Mom. It’s me.” His voice was tight. “Are you home?”

“Yes,” I said. “I didn’t go to work. I was a little sick.”

A pause. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

“No. Just fatigue. At my age, I need more rest.”

Another pause—I could hear the gears turning. He’d expected me to be gone.

“Mom, listen,” he said, clearing his throat. “There’s something I need to ask. Did you…change anything with your bank account lately?”

There it was.

“Actually, yes,” I said calmly. “Yesterday I withdrew all the money and put it in a safe place.”

“What? Why?” His voice jumped an octave. “Why would you withdraw all the money?”

“I heard about bank card fraud,” I said, keeping my voice innocent. “You know how I worry about security. I thought it best to be safe.”

Silence—long enough for me to imagine him standing at an ATM, staring at the words: INSUFFICIENT FUNDS.

“Mom, that isn’t smart,” he said finally, voice forced-calm with tension underneath. “It’s not safe to keep a large sum at home. You should return it to the bank.”

“Oh, I don’t keep it at home,” I said. “I put it somewhere else. A very safe place.”

“Where?” he asked sharply, then softened. “I mean, I’m worried about you. Where is it?”

“It’s safe,” I said. “Don’t worry.”

He exhaled hard. “Mom, I need to talk in person. Can I come over now?”

Part of me wanted to say no. But the conversation was inevitable. “Okay,” I said. “Come.”

Twenty minutes later he pulled up. I watched from the window as he slammed the car door and walked briskly toward the house—face tense, lips pressed thin. I opened the door before he rang.

“Hi, Keith,” I said. “Tea? I have apple pie.”

“No, thanks.” He went straight to the living room and sat on the couch. His hands were trembling. “Mom, we need to talk.”

“I’m listening,” I said, settling into the chair across from him.

He raked a hand through his hair—a nervous tell he’s had since childhood.

“Mom, I…tried to withdraw money from your account today using your card.”

His bluntness surprised me. I’d expected denials.

“I know,” I said.

His head snapped up. “You know?”

“Yes. Pearl told me about your plans. ‘Daddy’s going to take your money tonight.’ Those were her words.”

Shock crossed his face, then anger, then something like shame.

“That little—” He stopped. “I wasn’t going to steal from you, Mom. I just wanted to borrow the money. I’d pay you back as soon as I could.”

“Borrow it without my permission by copying my card data?” My voice was quiet but firm. “Keith, that’s called stealing.”

“No,” he said, standing. “It’s not. I’m your son. I have the right to—”

“To what?” I interrupted. “To the savings your father and I scraped together our whole lives? You have no right to that, Keith.”

He began pacing. “You don’t understand. I’m in serious trouble.”

“Debts?” I asked, though I already knew. “How much?”

He stopped, looking out the window. “I…gamble a little. Poker mostly. Sometimes sports. I usually win, but lately—” He swallowed. “Twenty thousand.”

Almost all my savings.

“Who do you owe?”

“Some people,” he said, voice low. “Not the nicest. They gave me until the end of the week. If I don’t pay…they threatened Vera and Pearl.”

I closed my eyes. Worse than I’d imagined. He wasn’t just trying to steal for another bet; he was in danger—and so were Vera and Pearl.

“Why didn’t you come to me sooner?” I asked. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I tried,” he said, frustrated. “All those requests for money. But you never gave enough. And I couldn’t tell you the truth. I was afraid if you knew it was for debts, you’d say no.”

“So instead of talking to me honestly, you decided to steal.” My disappointment was plain.

“I was desperate,” he whispered. “These people aren’t kidding.”

I looked at my son and saw two people—the scared boy who didn’t know how to get out of trouble, and the grown man who chose to steal from his mother rather than ask for help.

“Keith,” I said carefully, “I understand you’re in a hard place. But what you did—what you tried to do—is unforgivable.”

“I know.” His head hung lower. “I screwed up. Big time. But I really don’t know what to do. They’ll find me anywhere.”

“Does Vera know?”

“She knows I gamble,” he said. “Not the amount. I told her it was a couple thousand.”

Another lie in a chain of lies.

“I can’t give you twenty thousand,” I said. “Even if I wanted to, that’s almost everything I have.”

“But you have a house,” he said quickly. “You could take a loan against it. Or sell it and buy smaller. You live alone. Why do you need such a big house?”

Even now—after admitting he tried to steal—he was calculating how to get my money.

“No, Keith,” I said. “I won’t mortgage or sell my home to pay your debts. This house is all I have. It’s my home, my memories, my life.”

He nearly shouted. “You don’t understand. They’re coming for me. For Vera. For Pearl.”

“I understand,” I said calmly. “And I want to help—but not the way you’re asking.”

He stared, confused. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll help you find a financial adviser,” I said. “Someone who can help make a plan to pay off the debt. I’ll give you five thousand—no more—on the condition you enroll in treatment for gambling.”

His face twisted with anger. “Five thousand? Are you kidding? That doesn’t even cover half!”

“It can be a down payment,” I said. “Show your creditors you’re serious. For the rest, you need a plan.”

“I don’t have time for plans!” He sprang up. “They gave me three days. Friday!”

“Then talk to them,” I said. “Explain. Show them you have some money and a plan.”

“You don’t know these people,” he said bitterly. “They don’t negotiate.”

I stood, put a hand on his shoulder. “Then we go to the police. If your family is threatened—”

“No.” He jerked away. “No police. That’ll make it worse.”

Frustration rose in me. “I offered what I can—five thousand and real help. That’s it.”

“You’d do this?” His disbelief curdled into anger. “Leave your only son in the lurch?”

“I am not leaving you in the lurch,” I said. “I’m helping—but not by handing over everything with no guarantee you won’t gamble again.”

He turned on me. “You think I’d take your money and go gamble?”

“Isn’t that how we got here?” I asked. “Always chasing losses, making bigger and bigger bets.”

He didn’t answer. The truth sat between us.

“Even if I gave you everything,” I said softly, “it wouldn’t solve the problem. You’d pay this debt, but what stops you from gambling again? The problem isn’t money. It’s addiction.”

“I don’t have an addiction,” he muttered, less certain than before. “I just got carried away.”

“You tried to steal from your mother,” I reminded him. “That isn’t ‘carried away.’ That’s a serious problem.”

He slumped onto the couch, covering his face. “I don’t know what to do.”

He looked so lost—so much like the little boy I comforted after nightmares—that my heart ached. But reason stood firm. Giving him everything would only feed the fire.

“Here’s what we’ll do,” I said, sitting beside him. “Tomorrow we see a financial adviser. I know a good one—Benjamin Coulson. He helped me with investments after your father died. He’ll have ideas. I’ll give you five thousand—no more—if you sign up for a gambling treatment program.”

He lifted his head, eyes red. “What if it doesn’t work? What if they won’t wait?”

“Then we’ll think of something else,” I said. “But first, we try this.”

He was silent a long time, then nodded slowly. “All right. Let’s try. I don’t know if it’ll work.”

“I don’t either,” I said. “But we have to try.”

He stood, exhausted. “I have to go. Vera will be worried.”

“Will you tell her the truth?” I asked. “The real amount?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll have to. She deserves to know.”

I walked him to the door. Before he left, he turned back.

“Mom, I’m…sorry about the card. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No,” I said. “You shouldn’t have. But I’m glad you admit it.”

He nodded and left. I stood in the doorway and watched him drive away with a heavy heart. My son was in serious trouble, and I didn’t know if I could help him.

Back inside, I sat and stared at Earl’s picture a long time. Would he approve of my decision—or say I should be harsher? I didn’t know. I only knew tomorrow would be a new day, and Keith and I had a hard road ahead. Not only rebuilding his finances—but our trust.

The phone rang. Vera.

“Nella.” Her voice was strained. “Keith just got home. He…he told me about the debts. And about what he tried to do with your card.”

“Yes,” I said quietly. “It’s true.”

“I didn’t know,” she said quickly. “I swear I didn’t know he planned to steal from you. I thought he was just going to ask for a loan.”

I remembered Pearl saying she’d heard her parents talk about my money. Vera likely knew more than she admitted, but now wasn’t the time for accusations.

“What matters is what happens now,” I said. “Keith’s in trouble and needs help. Real help—not just money.”

“I know,” she said, voice shaking. “I suspected a gambling problem, but not like this. Twenty thousand. I don’t know how we’ll pay.”

“We’ll find a way,” I said, surprised by my own certainty. “We’re seeing a financial adviser tomorrow. Maybe he can make a plan.”

“Can I come?”

“Of course,” I said. “The more support Keith has, the better.”

After we hung up, I felt a little better. At least Vera understood the seriousness and was ready to help. But the problem remained: dangerous people, a big debt, three days.

I considered my options. Five thousand I could give now. The other fifteen—I couldn’t empty my savings, even if I wanted to. That money is for old age, for medical bills I can’t foresee. Maybe Benjamin would have a solution. Maybe Keith could negotiate installments. Either way, tomorrow would be full.

Before bed, I checked the locks again—not because I feared Keith, but because the insecurity lingered since I learned of his attempt. My quiet, predictable life had turned into a drama full of danger and uncertainty. One thing I knew: I wouldn’t let Keith use me again. I would help—but on my terms. If he refused, he’d have to find another way out of the mess he made.

Three months flew by. Denwitty slipped into winter—short days, cold winds, rare snowfalls. I watched the seasons change from my kitchen window, noting how not only the trees and streets changed, but my life, too.

A lot changed after that conversation. We went to see a financial adviser—Benjamin Coulson—just as I’d suggested. Benjamin, an older man with kind eyes and a steady manner, listened to Keith’s story, asked pointed questions, and proposed a plan. First, Keith had to acknowledge his addiction and seek help—that was my condition. Second, he needed to negotiate with his creditors for installments. Third, he had to follow a strict budget to pay off the debt quickly.

I gave Keith the promised five thousand—but not directly. Benjamin suggested opening a special account from which the money could go only to the debt. Keith reluctantly agreed. He had no choice.

Dealing with the creditors was tougher. Keith didn’t want me present, but insisted Benjamin go with him. They returned three hours later—Keith exhausted, but relieved.

“They agreed to a plan,” he said. “Two thousand a month. First installment immediately.” The first five thousand went at once. The rest Keith had to pay from his salary and any extra work he could find. Vera took an evening shift at the local supermarket to help. Keith started attending a support group for gambling addiction in a neighboring town—another condition I made.

For the first month, we barely spoke. Keith was busy with work and therapy. I gave him space—and gave myself some, too. In the second month, he called a few times. The conversations were awkward. He talked about group sessions, but resentment simmered in his voice. He still believed I should have given him all the money at once.

“You don’t trust me,” he said during one call. “You never did.”

“It’s not about trust,” I said. “It’s about responsibility. You’re a grown man. I’m doing what I can. I can’t do it for you.”

“You call that help?” he scoffed. “Five thousand out of your thirty? That’s help?”

I didn’t bother correcting him—that I had twenty-eight, not thirty, and that five thousand was almost a fifth of my savings. It didn’t matter. He saw the situation his way, and no argument would change it.

In the third month, he called even less. Pearl asked Vera several times why they weren’t visiting Grandma. I knew this because I’d started computer classes at the library, and one of my classmates, Helen, lives next door to Keith and Vera. She unwittingly became my source of news.

“I saw your granddaughter yesterday,” Helen said in mid-February as we walked home from class. “Such a sweet girl. She asked her mom when they’re visiting you.”

“What did Vera say?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

Helen shrugged. “Something like, ‘Soon, dear. Soon.’ You know how parents answer when they don’t want to be specific.”

I nodded, feeling that familiar ache. I missed Pearl. She was the innocent one in all of this, not understanding why she’d stopped seeing her grandmother.

Those computer classes were an outlet. Twice a week, I sat at a computer with other seniors, learning basic skills under the patient guidance of Ryan, a young instructor. I learned email, searching, even set up a social account, though I wasn’t sure what to do with it. More importantly, I met people. Besides Helen, there was George, a former history teacher with a sharp mind and dry humor; Eleanor, a widow like me with a sunnier outlook; and Patrick, a retiree learning computers to talk to grandchildren overseas.

We started meeting outside class—coffee at the café, classic film screenings at the community hall. George hosted the movie nights. Eleanor organized a book club. Gradually, my life filled with new colors, new people, new interests. And just when I began to think I could move forward without Keith and his family, Vera called.

It was a Saturday morning. I’d just come back from the farmer’s market with Eleanor—fresh vegetables, homemade bread, a jar of honey from a local beekeeper. I was setting out the groceries when the phone rang.

“Nella,” Vera said, tentative. “It’s me.”

“Hello, Vera,” I said, keeping my tone neutral. “How are you?”

“Fine.” She paused. “Listen—Pearl misses you. She keeps asking when she can see you.”

My heart sank and lifted at once. “I miss her, too.”

“I was thinking…maybe I could bring her over for a few hours. Keith doesn’t necessarily need to know.”

The suggestion surprised me. “You want to hide a visit to her own grandmother from Keith?”

“Not exactly,” she said quickly. “It’s just—he’s still hurt. He thinks you betrayed him by not giving him all the money at once and he…he forbade us to visit you.”

Anger rose in me. Keith had forbidden his family from seeing me—using his daughter as an instrument of punishment.

“Vera, I’ll be glad to see Pearl,” I said. “But I don’t want you and Keith fighting, and I don’t want to teach Pearl it’s okay to hide things from her parents.”

“I understand. It’s just…complicated. Keith is changing—therapy helps. He’s not acting out, but he’s withdrawn. Rigid. Especially about you.”

I thought it over. I didn’t want to add to the conflict. But I wanted to see Pearl. Maybe the visit could be the first step toward reconciliation.

“All right,” I said. “Bring Pearl. But you have to tell Keith. Not necessarily beforehand—you can tell him afterward. I won’t keep secrets.”

Vera hesitated, then agreed. “All right. Sunday’s my day off, and Keith will be at his extra job all day.”

We agreed on eleven the next morning. After I hung up, I looked out the window. I missed Pearl, but I wasn’t sure I was ready for Keith’s drama again. The last few months had been a time of calm and discovery. I’d started to build a life where I wasn’t just a mother or grandmother, but myself—Nella Hammond, with my own interests and friends. But Pearl didn’t have to suffer for the conflict between the adults.

On Sunday, I got up early, baked chocolate chip cookies, and tidied the house. At exactly eleven, the doorbell rang. Vera stood on the step, holding Pearl’s hand. The girl looked older, somehow, in three months—blond hair in two ponytails, a new red coat.

“Grandma!” she cried, throwing her arms around my neck. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you, too,” I said, tears pricking. “So much.”

“I’ll pick her up at two, okay?” Vera asked, shifting. “I have a few errands.”

I nodded, and she left quickly, leaving us alone.

“I have a surprise,” I told Pearl, leading her to the kitchen. “Guess what I baked.”

“Chocolate chip cookies!” she shouted, seeing the plate. “My favorite!”

We spent a wonderful morning. Pearl talked about school, her friends, her new art teacher who praised her work. I listened, asking questions, savoring every minute.

After cookies and cocoa, we moved to the living room where Pearl noticed my laptop—a recent purchase inspired by my classes.

“Grandma, you have a computer?” she marveled. “Do you know how to use it?”

“Of course,” I said, proud. “I go to lessons. Want me to show you?”

I showed her email and how to search for things. She was thrilled, especially when I found an educational game for her age.

“You’re so smart, Grandma,” she said. “Daddy said old people don’t know how to use computers.”

I frowned lightly. “Well, your dad’s not quite right. Age doesn’t stop anyone from learning—only lack of desire does.”

She nodded gravely, as if filing that away forever.

“Why don’t you come to our house anymore?” she asked suddenly. “And why don’t we come here? Daddy gets angry when I ask about you.”

I sighed, searching for six-year-old words. “Sometimes adults don’t agree,” I said. “It doesn’t mean they don’t love each other. They just need time to sort out their feelings.”

“Like when Lizzie and I fought over a doll?” Pearl asked. “We didn’t talk for a day and then we made up.”

“Yes,” I said. “Something like that. Only adults sometimes take longer.”

“That’s silly,” she said with childlike candor. “You should just say sorry and hug.”

If only, I thought. But I didn’t say it.

“You know what?” I said instead. “Let’s draw something for your dad. Maybe it’ll help him be less angry.”

Pearl agreed enthusiastically. We spent the next hour drawing and coloring. She drew the three of us—herself, her father, and me—holding hands beneath a bright sun. Above the picture she wrote, in big letters, “I love my family.”

A lump rose in my throat. For Pearl, life was simple. She loved her father. She loved her grandmother. We were supposed to love each other.

At two, Vera returned. She looked nervous but smiled when Pearl proudly presented the drawing.

“It’s for Daddy,” Pearl explained. “So he’ll stop being mad at Grandma.”

Vera shot me an apologetic look. “It’s beautiful, honey. Daddy will be so happy.”

While Pearl gathered her things, Vera spoke softly to me. “I’m sorry about that. We don’t tell her Keith’s mad at you, but kids know.”

“It’s all right,” I said. “She’s observant—like her grandmother.”

Vera smiled weakly. “Listen—Keith doesn’t know we’re here. I’ll tell him, like I promised, but it may not be easy.”

“I understand,” I said. “And I appreciate you bringing her. Pearl shouldn’t suffer because Keith and I disagree.”

“You’re right,” Vera said gratefully. “He’s changing, though. Slowly. Therapy helps. He’s not acting out, but…” She hesitated. “He’s rigid.”

“I’m glad he’s trying,” I said. “Maybe next time you can come together—all three of you. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try to convince him,” she said.

“I’d like that,” I said. “My door is always open.”

After they left, I sat thinking. Maybe there was a chance for reconciliation—not right away, but slowly. That would be good—not for me as much as for Pearl.

That evening, I went to the weekly screening of classic films with George, Eleanor, and the others from class. Casablanca flickered on the screen—a movie I hadn’t seen in years. Afterward, we crossed to the coffee shop, talking about the movie and sharing impressions.

“How was your visit with your granddaughter?” Eleanor asked when we found a quiet moment.

“Wonderful,” I said. “She’s so smart—and she’s grown.”

“And your son?” she asked gently. “Any progress?”

“Not yet,” I sighed. “But maybe soon. Vera says he’s changing. Therapy helps.”

“Give him time,” she said. “Sometimes it’s hard for men to admit their mistakes—especially to their mothers.”

“I know,” I said. “And I’ll wait. But I won’t let him use me or manipulate me again. That time has passed.”

“Well said.” Eleanor lifted her cup in a playful toast. “Here’s to the new Nella Hammond—a woman who knows her worth and knows how to set boundaries.”

I smiled and clinked my cup against hers.

Back home, I checked my email—a new habit from class. Among the promotions and library notifications was a message from Patrick inviting me to a cooking class the following Saturday.

“Our group is learning Italian dishes,” he wrote. “Join us. It’ll be fun.”

I smiled and wrote back yes—another small adventure in my new life.

Before bed, I took out Earl’s picture and talked to it, as always.

“You know, Earl,” I said to his smiling face, “I think you’d be pleased with me now. I finally learned to stand my ground. I only wish I didn’t have to go to such extremes with Keith.”

The photo didn’t answer. But it seemed to me that somewhere, Earl nodded.

I went to bed with a peace I hadn’t felt in a long time. I didn’t know what the future would bring—whether Keith and I would reconcile, whether I’d be able to trust him fully again. I knew one thing: whatever happened, I could handle it. Because now I had a responsibility not only to others, but to myself. And that gave me a strength I hadn’t known before.

At sixty-five, I finally began a new chapter of my life. Despite all the difficulties, it promised to be interesting.