I had made it very clear that I couldn’t lend any money that month, because I still had to put all my money and emotional strength toward the surgery I was about to undergo, and I kept thinking my daughter-in-law would be understanding and stop there. But just a few minutes later, my phone lit up with a message from her, so cold that I was left stunned, unable to believe what had just appeared before my eyes.

The old clock on the dresser glowed 1:12, then 2:47, then 4:03. I lay listening to the house settle and to the occasional sweep of headlights moving across the ceiling when a car passed on the street. I thought about Sunday dinners that would not happen now, about my granddaughter’s loose tooth she’d been worrying all week with the tip of her tongue, about the small pink rain boots by their mudroom bench, about the drive I would not be making on Sunday afternoon. I thought about my hip surgery, about the practical fear of being laid up and alone, and then, beneath that, a different fear that had nothing to do with recovery and everything to do with usefulness.

In the morning I called my friend Beverly.