At seventy-two, I have lived a life built on steadiness — raised by a geologist and a librarian, married to a civil engineer who turned discipline into love. Jasper and I raised one son, Casper, later than planned, and perhaps I softened too easily. Where Jasper believed in letting a boy learn weight, I believed in cushioning falls. “Yes” became a habit, and habits carve deeper than we expect.

Casper wasn’t wild or cruel, just charming, restless, allergic to anything that required patience. He left college claiming the world graded differently outside its walls. Jasper went silent for a week. I brokered peace with apple pies and gentle logic, always trying to keep the beams of our home from bending. But sometimes a beam bends quietly, from long-term pressure rather than sudden force.

Then Jasper died — suddenly, on a job site — leaving me with our house, our memories, and a son who still floated rather than stood firm. I tried to hold both grief and duty at once. I promised myself I’d stay rational, stay steady, stay the woman numbers could trust. But loss softens even the sternest guardrails.

So when the morning arrived that Casper needed $980,000 — nearly everything I had — I wired it, telling myself it was love when really it was fear disguised as devotion. The day began with cinnamon and familiarity, but ended with a note that shifted the temperature of my world, reminding me too late that sometimes the kindest word a parent can learn is no.