Losing him was the kind of grief that lodges deep in your bones. Still, I wasn’t entirely alone. My son, Michael, moved in not long afterward. We didn’t always see eye to eye, but we had each other. We bickered sometimes, laughed often, and always found our way back to peace over a shared meal. He kept the lights on, and I kept the house warm.

By then, my health was already starting to decline. Arthritis gnawed at my hips, and COPD made every breath feel like pulling air through a straw. My doctors had me on a strict routine of therapy and breathing treatments. I could still manage daily tasks — cooking, cleaning, looking after myself — but I needed someone nearby in case I had a bad spell.