Still, I stayed. I cooked the meals, adjusted to the thermostat they locked at 68, ignored the sideways glances when I watched my crime shows too loud. I told myself I was lucky to be close to my grandchildren, that this was what late life looked like—useful, if not cherished.

Then last Tuesday night, as I was folding the boys’ socks, Taran came into the laundry room holding her phone like a shield.

“Mom,” she said, not quite meeting my eyes. “Niles’s parents are moving in.”

I blinked, a sock still in my hand. “They’re visiting.”

“No—moving in for good. We need the space.”

I chuckled, waiting for the smile to follow. It didn’t.

“You’ll need to leave by the end of the month,” she said.