The funeral flowers had barely faded when the phone rang. I stood in the kitchen, two weeks after Helen’s funeral, staring at the untouched steam rising from my mug. “Dad, we need to discuss the house,” Mark’s voice crackled through the line. His tone carried the same impatience he had as a teen, only now he was thirty-eight. “Morning,” I replied flatly. “Don’t start that,” he snapped. “Laura and I agree—it’s too big for you. Taxes, maintenance… it doesn’t make sense. We found a buyer.” I remained calm. “There’s no mortgage,” I said. Helen and I had paid it off years ago. I never told the kids. They assumed otherwise, and I let them. Mark’s laugh cut through my silence, sharp and familiar. “Dad, Mom’s pension barely covered her medicine. We know you’re struggling.” I stared out the window at the garden we had nurtured for twenty-five years. “You’re worried about me?”

I asked quietly. He hesitated. “I’m thinking about what’s practical.” I tuned him out. I pictured him at the dining table, spreadsheet open: Dad’s House Sale, Proceeds, Division. I had taught him math at eight, but now he was calculating me. “Mark,” I said evenly, “you’ve been planning this for a while.” “That’s practical!” he shouted. “We can’t just wait until something happens to you.” I let it hang in the air. Until something happens to me. “Appreciate your concern,” I said softly. Then I hung up. The phone rang again. Laura’s voice was too bright, masking her intentions. “Dad, Mark and I agree. You should sell. We can set you up with the basement—private space, full bathroom. Perfect.” “Perfect,” I repeated silently. A word too grand for four underground walls. “And the money?” I asked. “After the contractor, you’d keep some aside,” she said. “Help Emily’s tuition, maybe Mark’s house. Everyone benefits.” I cut her off. “Laura, when was the last time you called just to talk?” She stumbled. I reminded her: two months. Two months of calls only about money. I hung up again, staring at Helen’s reading glasses resting on her unfinished book. A sticky note read: If you’re reading this, you need what’s inside. Inside the book, I found financial statements in Helen’s neat hand. Bank accounts, life insurance policies, and a deed to a villa in Portugal—completely unknown to me. Helen had written: Not yet. Keep private. A letter, dated two years earlier, explained everything. She had anticipated their call