I came home after three days in Phoenix, and my key wouldn’t open my own door. For a split second I wondered if I was on the wrong floor, even though the number said 304 and the hallway smelled the same—old carpet and warm elevator air.

Five thousand dollars for an apartment worth at least $250,000.

For twenty years of payments.

For my home.

I showed the message to Robert that afternoon. He read it, shook his head.

“It’s insulting,” he said. “But legally, Mrs. Eleanor, we can’t force them to do more. I explained: the transfer was done. If you reject the offer, you could receive nothing.”

I couldn’t sleep that night.

$5,000 divided by twelve months was $417 a month. Added to my pension of $400, that made $817 monthly.

I couldn’t rent even a studio in a decent area with that money, much less eat, pay for utilities, or medicine.

The next morning, Margaret entered my room with the newspaper.

“Look,” she said. “There are studios for rent in Oakwood. Not fancy, but safe. $800 a month.”

“Margaret,” I whispered, “I don’t have $800 a month. I’ll barely have that total.”

“Then we get them to lower it,” she said. “Or you work.”

“A job,” I repeated, almost laughing from disbelief. “I’m seventy. Who hires seventy-year-old women?”

“You were a nurse,” Margaret said. “Clinics, hospitals, private homes. People need caregivers.”

The idea of going back to full-time work terrified me. But the alternative was worse: being dependent on Margaret, ending up in a shelter, or sleeping somewhere I wouldn’t survive.

So I accepted Jessica’s offer.

Five thousand miserable dollars for my entire life.

Robert prepared the agreement. My hand trembled as I wrote my name. Three days later, the money appeared in my account, along with a message from Jessica.

“You can come by tomorrow between 2 and 4 in the afternoon to pick up your personal belongings. Be punctual. We will only give you two hours.”