Margaret Collins never expected to become the kind of woman whose life could be split into “before” and “after” with one piece of paper. She was sixty-seven, the sort of age where people begin talking to you slowly in pharmacies and insist on carrying your groceries even when you don’t ask. She had lived her whole life with a careful, quiet discipline: save what you can, don’t make a fuss, don’t ask for too much, and don’t embarrass yourself by expecting people to show up for you. That last rule became her armor after her husband died and the family she had poured herself into began to treat her like an obligation instead of a person. Daniel would call only when his car needed repairs or when his credit card was maxed out. Laura would show up with the kids and a list of errands Margaret was expected to do, as if “Mom” meant free labor and a warm kitchen. They weren’t cruel in dramatic ways. They were worse—indifferent, dismissive, impatient with anything that required emotional effort. Even Ethan, her grandson, had become a distant figure in recent years, busy with school and a job and the loud, hungry world of being eighteen.