My brother and sister arrived at our mother’s funeral in gleaming rental SUVs, already planning how to split the house—until I opened the safe and dropped a red folder on the table.

We’re stretched thin.

The kids’ tuition is brutal.

The second mortgage is killing us.

Besides, you live there for free.

That phrase stayed under my skin for years.

Rent-free.

As if sleeping on a mattress next to my mother’s room so I could hear her vomiting after treatment was some kind of lucky break.

As if changing my father’s diaper before sunrise was payment enough.

Dad died six months ago.

Mom held on longer than anyone expected.