Allison sat across from him and did not say I told you so. She walked him through fourteen months of private-suite differentials, through the emergency savings descending like a tide going out, through the property tax, through Emma's orthodontia, through the car repair in August he had forgotten was paid from the same account. She was patient. She was clear. She was, in the merciless light of spreadsheets, correct about the money even if she had been catastrophic about the method.
"We cannot afford Cedar Ridge private," Daniel said at last. "We can barely afford shared if we cut other things."
"We can afford shared if we cut other things," Allison agreed. "Or we can bring her here. Permanently. Guest room becomes her room. We rearrange. We tell the kids. We figure out caregiving between your schedule and mine and whatever help we can pay for a few hours a week."
Daniel looked toward the staircase, toward the guest room where Margaret was reading a paperback she had brought in the suitcase. "She wanted the private suite because she said shared rooms reminded her of the hospital after Dad's last surgery. She said she needed a door she could close."
"I know what she wanted," Allison said softly. "I also know what we have."
They told Margaret the options on a Sunday afternoon when the children were at a neighbor's birthday party and the living room belonged, briefly, to adults. Margaret sat on the beige sofa in her burgundy cardigan. Daniel sat beside her. Allison sat in the armchair, hands folded, green eyes steady.