My grandson came by and asked why I was staying in a small room out back.

The yard fell silent except for the steady drip of rain from the gutter.

Melissa inhaled sharply—not because she disagreed, but because he had said it out loud.

I felt shame before anger, the way you do when humiliation becomes routine. “Brian,” I whispered, “stop.”

But Ethan didn’t stop. His gaze moved from my face to the back room, to the cracked step, to the prescription bag visible on my dresser through the open door.

Then, very calmly, he asked, “Tell me exactly whose name is on this property.”