Sophie pulled a folded paper from the waistband of her jeans, hands trembling. She had photographed it off her father’s desk that morning. It was a printout from an elder care facility, a shared room on the far edge of the county, with a move-in date already circled two weeks away. My name was typed at the top. Anthony had not only used me as a free nanny, he had arranged to hand me off the moment they finally hired someone younger.

Underneath was worse. A second page showed a power of attorney form, half filled out, listing Anthony as the person who would control my remaining money, the very money from the house I had sold. Sophie whispered that she had heard them planning it in the kitchen, saying I would “sign anything” if they framed it as help. I looked at my packed suitcase, then at my granddaughter’s frightened face, and something in me turned to iron.