At Christmas dinner, Mom gifted everyone but me—then smiled and said, “Be grateful you can sit here,” like that was my present.

Then I picked up my phone and called the property management office.

The receptionist transferred me to the property manager, a woman named Patricia Leang. Professional. Calm. The kind of voice that read: contracts for a living.

“Miss Ingram, how can I help you?”

“I’d like to ask about my options regarding the lease at unit 14. Specifically, what happens if I choose not to renew?”

A brief pause. The sound of keys clicking.

“You are the sole lease holder on that unit, Miss Ingram. Your current term expires January 31st. If you wish not to renew, you need to submit a 30-day written notice. We’ll send formal notification to all listed occupants. And if someone living there who isn’t on the lease—if they refuse to leave—anyone not on the lease has no legal standing to remain after the term expires. That would be handled through standard procedures.”

I thanked her and hung up.

Then I sat there looking at the lease, the bank statements, and the calendar on my phone.

January 31st. Thirty-three days away.

Thirty-three days.

And the woman who told me to be grateful I could sit in her house was sitting in mine.

December 29th.

I drove 30 miles to Greenfield Assisted Living with a small bouquet of carnations and a container of homemade brownies. My grandmother’s room was warm and smelled like lavender hand lotion.

She was sitting in her recliner by the window when I walked in, reading glasses low on her nose, a crossword puzzle in her lap, the TV playing some Christmas movie with the volume turned down.

Lorraine Harmon. 78 years old.