My son froze my cards so I couldn’t even buy groceries. He thinks he controls our $42 million empire—but one call from the bank made me realize he has no idea what I’m about to do. First my credit card declined. Then my debit.

Late that night, after everyone left and the kitchen was restored to order and the dishwasher hummed softly in the dark, I went into Warren’s study and sat in his old chair. I do that sometimes when the day has carried more history than usual. The room still smelled faintly of leather and paper and cedar. His framed reading glasses sat on the shelf because I cannot bring myself to hide them. Some people say that keeps grief alive. I think the opposite. I think it gives grief somewhere dignified to sit.