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.

Robert’s house was modern, with gleaming floors and furniture that looked straight out of a magazine. Dawn, my daughter-in-law, greeted me with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Welcome, Helen,” she said, without calling me mother-in-law, without calling me Mom. Just Helen, as if I were a stranger.

From the very first day, I knew I had made a mistake, but it was too late to go back.