I was already dressed for dinner when my son sent two messages less than a minute apart—the first saying plans at the new townhouse had changed, the second telling the truth: I had never been invited in the first place. His wife didn’t want me there.

I turned the device off, went upstairs, and stepped out of my navy dress. I put on a soft robe, brewed a cup of tea, and sat by the window watching the rain.

I didn’t feel joy yet, but I felt a strange, terrifying sense of relief.

The next morning, I arrived at the bank at eight forty-five and waited in my car until the lights flickered on. I had slept without the aid of a pill for the first time in years, and I felt as though a heavy fog had finally lifted from my vision.

Lydia Thorne, a senior manager who had worked with Arthur and me for decades, greeted me at the door. She led me back to her private office, which smelled of expensive stationery and stale coffee.

“I saw the alert on your accounts from last night, Sylvia,” Lydia said softly. “I wanted to make sure everything was alright before we made these changes final.”

“I have never been more sure of anything in my life, Lydia,” I told her. “Let us proceed with the documents.”

It took nearly an hour to sign through the stack of forms. My hand began to cramp, but I didn’t stop until every link was severed.