At first, I thought grief had softened him.
He brought groceries.
He changed light bulbs.
He checked the boiler pressure with a seriousness Frank would have found funny.
Melissa came with him sometimes, carrying soup in tidy containers and speaking in a voice so gentle it almost had no edges.
Everyone told me I was fortunate.
A son who came round.
A daughter-in-law who helped.
A family keeping watch.
For a while, I believed it.
Then the comments began arriving in little paper cuts.
“This place is a lot for one person, Mum.”
“You must get lonely rattling around here.”
