He leaned in, invading my space. I smelled stale beer and mint gum. “Exactly, Mom. You worked. You’re old now. You’re slipping. You need help.”

“I don’t need help,” I whispered, my heart beginning to hammer a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

From the corner, Amy laughed. It was a high, brittle sound. “Oh, Mrs. Mary, don’t be difficult. It’s for your own good. Tom knows best.”

Tom walked to the mantle and picked up a framed photo of Robert, my late husband. “Do you think Dad would want to see you like this? Stubborn? Hoarding everything while your family struggles?”

“Your father,” I said, my voice hardening, “would want me to retain my dignity.”

Tom slammed the photo face-down. The glass cracked. “Sign it, Mom.”