Vanessa, my daughter-in-law, tapped her long, manicured fingernails against the edge of her water glass. The rhythmic clicking sounded like a countdown. “That is why we need to make decisions today, Margaret. It makes perfect sense for Mom and Dad to move in here.”
My son, Daniel, did not look at me. He kept his eyes on his plate, cutting his ham into tiny, identical squares. He checked his watch, a nervous habit he had developed over the last year as his own debts began to climb.
“It is a four-bedroom house, Mom,” Daniel said in a rapid, defensive burst. “You are rattled by the maintenance. Having Frank around to help with the yard would save you money.”
“I have a service for the yard, Daniel,” I said.
“Which costs eighty dollars a week,” Vanessa said, her voice rising to a sharp, high-pitched insistence. “That is money that could go toward your retirement. Or toward helping Daniel with his truck payments.”
“My retirement is secure,” I said, keeping my hands flat on the white linen napkin in my lap. “And this is my home.”
