Daniel sat on the edge of the coffee table facing his mother. The floor lamp painted half his face in warm light and left the other half in the soft shadow of a man already dividing into the son who wanted answers and the husband who was afraid of them.
"Start from the beginning," he said. "Slowly."
Margaret removed her glasses, wiped them on the hem of her cardigan, put them back on. The ritual of a woman buying herself three seconds of composure.
"I woke up this morning. I went down to breakfast. The dining room was the same — the oatmeal, the plastic flowers, Mrs. Chen complaining about the coffee the way she always does. After breakfast I went back to my room to get my sweater for the walking group. The door was open. Two women from the office were inside with boxes. They said my residency had been terminated effective immediately. They said the paperwork had been processed. They said I needed to collect my things by five o'clock."
Daniel's hands gripped his knees. "Terminated. On what grounds?"
"They wouldn't say grounds. They said authorization. They said the account holder had submitted a cancellation of the private suite and a request for immediate vacancy. They gave me a folder. I opened it in the hallway because I couldn't wait until I sat down." Margaret's voice frayed. "Your wife's name was on the authorization form. Her signature. Dated yesterday."