I live alone now in the small house on Willow Lane. My husband, Henry, built it with his own hands in 1963, and I can still picture him working away on summer evenings, shirt drenched with sweat, his grin as wide as the horizon. He’s been gone nearly 20 years, and my son, Arthur, passed from cancer a decade later.

Now it’s just me and Liam, my grandson. He’s all I have left, and he’s more than enough.