Willow Grove Care Facility, the brochure read, with a thick red circle drawn around the monthly rates for permanent residents.
Below the text was a colored photograph of stone walls and high iron fences, and beside the circle, my father had written three sharp letters in his signature red ink.
Our family’s security had always felt solid, but looking at those red marks, I felt the ground beneath the yellow house begin to slide.
I stared down at the glossy photograph of the high fences of Willow Grove, crumpled at the bottom of the kitchen trash bin.
The damp scent of autumn leaves drifted through the open kitchen window the next morning, but my eyes were fixed on the garden.
Ben was kneeling in the damp soil near the edge of the lawn, his boots dark with mud.
He held a small gray velvet box in his right hand, tilting it up toward my sister.
Rosie clapped her hands against her cheeks, her elbows wide, a sudden burst of laughter carrying across the grass.
