I didn’t argue. I didn’t scream. I saw the utter, soul-deep exhaustion and shame on my mother’s face, and my own white-hot rage solidified into a cold, precise, and infinitely more dangerous weapon. Ben wanted a scene. He wanted hysterics. He wanted to feed on our pain, to watch us break. I would not give him the satisfaction.

“Okay, Ben,” I said, my voice unnervingly calm.

I helped my mother to my car, bundling her into the passenger seat as if she were a fragile, wounded bird. I covered her with a blanket from the back seat. Then, I methodically, and with a chilling, silent deliberation, collected the scattered boxes of her life. I packed the photos, the sewing basket, the spilled contents of the suitcase. My focus was absolute, my movements efficient and detached. My gaze never left Ben, who watched the whole procedure with a triumphant, sneering curiosity, a predator enjoying the final moments of his victim’s struggle. He had mistaken my silence for surrender. It was a fatal error.