Inside the first box were my reading glasses, my late husband’s watch, and a thick folder from Willow Creek Senior Living. I opened it with shaking hands. It was a completed admission application in my name, a move-in date of next Monday, and a deposit receipt for four thousand dollars, paid from my own checking account. At the bottom was a signature that looked almost like mine.

Below it, on the line marked Responsible Family Member, was my son’s name. Before I could breathe, headlights swept across the garage. Patrick’s truck pulled into the driveway, and he stepped out still wearing his work boots. He saw the open box, the folder, my face. “Mom?” he said. “You’re home early.” I held up the application. Patrick read it, and the blood drained from his face. “That’s not my signature,” he whispered.