I was wrong.
My daughter, Renee, was an environmental toxicologist at a university in Halifax. Brilliant, fiercely principled—the kind of woman who wrote letters to city councils and actually expected replies.
She married Thomas Bozlet when she was thirty-two, a quiet, thoughtful man who worked in community health outreach for Indigenous communities across Cape Breton Island.
Together they bought an old property off the Cabot Trail, a wide-windowed place that overlooked the Gulf of St. Lawrence.
Every time I asked to visit, Renee would laugh softly and say, “Not yet, Mom. The mold remediation is taking forever. You’d be miserable.”
So I waited.
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