My daughter-in-law put me under “cleaning weekend” on her “summer rotation” for my Gulf Shores condo. She had already given my beach gate code to strangers. I took one photo, folded the list, and by dinner, Ashley was locked outside asking who told the property office my name.

Cleaning weekend.

My husband’s promise to me had been turned into a chore slot.

Ashley was watching my face. She always watched faces. That was how she knew where to press.

“Don’t look so hurt,” she said lightly. “You’re retired. You can come down anytime, honestly. And somebody needs to reset the place between guests.”

Reset the place.

As if I had become the maid in the only home Ray ever bought for me.

As if my knees did not ache after carrying laundry down two flights when the elevator was out.

As if I had not stood in line at the county tax office with my checkbook in my purse.

As if I had not spent half a winter fighting with the insurance company after wind-driven rain found its way under the balcony door.

I looked at Darren first.

He had the decency to appear uncomfortable, but not the courage to speak.