On a chilly autumn afternoon, Martha closed the front door of her son’s house behind her, suitcase in hand. The latch clicked with a finality that echoed in her heart. Her son Derek stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his wife Tanya just behind him, silent but visibly satisfied. “You should have told us, Ma,” Derek had said minutes earlier. “You’ve been eating our food, sitting here all day doing nothing.” Tanya, never one to hide her opinions, added, “We can’t carry your mama too. We’re struggling.”