I found him there on his knees, the hose still dripping water onto his brown shoes. Since that day, my world became silence and yellowing photographs. I was left alone in a house that was too big, surrounded by memories that hurt to touch.

Robert, my only son, insisted that I move in with him and his wife. “You can’t be alone, Mom. At your age, it’s dangerous,” he sounded worried over the phone. I wanted to believe him. I needed to believe him. So, I packed my life into four suitcases and left behind the house where I raised my son, where Henry and I used to dance in the kitchen on Sundays, where every corner held pieces of us.