“I’m not cutting off my daughter,” I said through the glass. “I’m cutting off the bank.” Blake opened his mouth, but I raised one hand. “And Blake, I heard more than one comment last night. Your mother said something else in Italian while Corinne was laughing.” I repeated it to him in English, slowly. “Next year, we’ll move her into assisted living and sell this house.”

Blake’s face drained of color. He took a step back from the door as if the glass had grown hot. “She was joking,” he stammered. “Mom jokes when she drinks.” Before I could answer, a second car swung into the driveway behind his sedan. Corinne climbed out, still in yesterday’s clothes, mascara streaked down her cheeks. She ran up the steps. “Mom, please,” she cried. “That plan was never mine.”