I had made it very clear that I couldn’t lend any money that month, because I still had to put all my money and emotional strength toward the surgery I was about to undergo, and I kept thinking my daughter-in-law would be understanding and stop there. But just a few minutes later, my phone lit up with a message from her, so cold that I was left stunned, unable to believe what had just appeared before my eyes.

On the afternoon before I left, I stood in my living room and looked around the house. The curtains were open. The throw pillows were slightly crooked in the way they always are after one person lives alone long enough to stop caring about symmetry. The framed photo of my husband in his gardening hat smiled out from the piano. The place was clean and quiet and entirely mine.

Not empty.

Resting.

The train pulled out just after nine the next morning under a sky the color of unpolished tin.

There is something about train travel that restores proportion to a life. Air travel compresses everything into urgency and instruction. Driving makes you responsible for every mile. But a train lets you sit inside movement and feel it happen gradually, like a thought arriving. I settled into my seat by the window with my tote bag at my feet, a paperback in my purse, and a thermos of coffee Beverly had insisted on filling for me before she drove me to the station.

For the first hour I did not check my phone.

I just watched.