I buried my husband Ernest on a gray Tuesday in February and, eight days later, bought a ticket for a one-year cruise. When my son Austin and his wife Chloe arrived with three pet cages on a Friday evening, they set them down on my living room rug like it was perfectly normal. Chloe gave instructions without looking up from her phone: change the water twice a day, don’t feed the rabbit lettuce, and clean up because it starts to smell. Austin kissed my forehead and said they were going to the Bahamas. They could always count on me.

Nine days after burying my husband, I had become their housekeeper. I smiled and told them I would take care of everything. After they left, I cleaned the house, called my neighbor’s nephew to take the animals to the shelter, and packed my blue suitcase. On the kitchen table I left a note: Austin, when you read this, do not call to complain. Call your lawyer.
What they did not know was that Ernest and I owned the apartment they had lived in rent-free for eleven years. My father had insisted my name be on the deed during our refinance. Austin had never read the documents. I had quietly arranged a lease through my attorney Iris Delgado. The rent was eleven hundred dollars a month, reasonable for the area, with receipts required.