I got sick. At 78, that’s not surprising. The doctor used words like “frail” and “monitor closely,” but I knew what he really meant: The clock is ticking, Eleanor.
I lived alone in the sprawling estate my late husband, Arthur, had built for us forty years ago. It was too big for one old woman, filled with dusty rooms and echoes of better days. Lonely and frightened by the diagnosis, I called my whole family together. I have a son, Robert, and a daughter, Clara. We rarely saw each other anymore. Robert was always “too busy” with his failing investments, and Clara… well, Clara only called when she needed a bill paid.
