MY DAUGHTER CAME FOR MY RETIREMENT CHECK. SHE NEVER EXPECTED WHAT I HAD HIDDEN IN THE BANK ENVELOPE.

By evening, the locksmith had come and gone.

The old brass cylinder lock, the one Stanley had fitted with his own custom deadbolt, was replaced with a heavy, solid-steel deadbolt that only took one key—the one resting securely on the silver ring in my apron pocket.

Brenda, the young assistant manager from the bank, had stopped by around four o'clock with a fresh thermos of coffee and a box of pastries from the bakery down the street.

We sat on the front porch steps, watching the neighborhood children ride their bicycles past the streetlight.

“You handled that like a general, Mrs. Martinez,” Brenda said, taking a sip from her paper cup.

“I was just tired of being polite, Brenda,” I replied, looking down at my hands. The skin was lined with age, the veins prominent, but they didn't shake anymore. “Politeness is what people use to keep you quiet while they take your life apart piece by piece.”

“What are you going to do now?”

I looked at the front door, freshly painted a deep, welcoming forest green—the color Robert had always wanted before Stanley insisted on battleship gray.

“I’m going to paint the front door,” I said softly. “And then, I’m going to plant more roses.”

Brenda smiled, resting her shoulder against mine. “If you need any help with the digging, you know where to find me.”