It bought comfort.
It gave Mother choices many people did not have.
I was grateful for all of that.
But money could not sit beside her bed and remember the story she had told twice already.
It could not make Clara laugh.
It could not forgive eighteen years of fear.
It could not tell me when to stay in the room instead of returning to work.
Those things required time.
And attention.
And sometimes courage.
Months after the funeral, I sold the mansion.
Everyone was astonished.
The business press speculated about financial reasons.
There were none.
I simply no longer needed twenty-three acres to prove I had succeeded.
I kept Father’s study desk.
Mother’s blue blanket.
The recordings.
And one box of photographs.
Including the picture of Father, Miriam, and Clara.
Clara kept the photograph from the hospital.
We made copies for each other.
I moved into a smaller house near the city.
