the first few months, Tessa began behaving as if the entire duplex belonged to her.
She criticized the furniture in my downstairs apartment.
She told me my grocery purchases were wasteful.
Once, while I was visiting a friend, she let herself into my kitchen and discarded an entire shelf of old cookbooks because they were supposedly attracting dust.
One of those books had belonged to Daniel’s mother.
When I confronted her, Tessa shrugged.
“You’re always saying you want less clutter, Ruth.
I’m helping.”
Ben apologized for her later.
He always apologized later.
But his apologies never changed anything.
The worst moment came on my sixtieth birthday.
I had planned a quiet supper with two friends.
Tessa decided we should celebrate at her favorite restaurant instead.
When I explained that I already had plans, she laughed.
“You should be grateful somebody is making an effort.
It’s not like you have a packed social calendar.”
I smiled because my friends were standing nearby.
Later that evening, I went to bed angry with myself.
I realized I had spent decades protecting other people’s feelings while treating my own as an inconvenience.
That night, I began looking at houses.
—
Buying the townhouse was not an impulsive decision.
I spent eleven months comparing prices, consulting a financial adviser, reviewing my retirement income, and calculating what I could safely afford.
The duplex remained mine, and the rent from its upstairs apartment helped cover its expenses.
My mortgage payment on the townhouse would fit within my retirement budget.
I had even set aside money for unexpected repairs.
The townhouse gave me something I’d wanted since Daniel died: a space with no memories of hospital visits, medical equipment, and grief.
It also had a sunroom large enough for the bookbinding table I’d inherited from my father.
As a girl, I had loved repairing damaged books.
My father taught me to mend torn pages and stitch loose bindings with waxed thread.
I had stopped doing it after Ben was born.
There was never enough time.
Now I wanted that time back.
I kept the purchase quiet until everything was finalized.
Tessa discovered it when an insurance envelope arrived at the duplex while I was at the grocery store.
She was waiting for me in my kitchen when I returned.
“You bought another property?” she demanded.
I set my groceries down.
“Yes.”
“With what money?”
“My savings.”
She crossed her arms.
“That’s not very family-minded.”
I almost laughed.
For two years, I had subsidized their housing, paid for several emergency repairs to Ben’s car, and quietly covered their heating bill when Tessa’s business had a bad winter.
Yet apparently buying myself a home was selfish.
“I’m not asking you to pay for it,” I said.
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
She looked away for a moment.
“Ben and I need more space.
The townhouse would make far more sense for a young couple than for one elderly woman.”
Elderly.
I was sixty-one, healthy, working part-time at the library, and perfectly capable of carrying my own groceries.
But suddenly I had become elderly because it served her argument.
“You and Ben have an apartment,” I replied.
“The townhouse is my home.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“You could stay here.
We could move into the townhouse and maintain it
