“Terrible.”
Daniel laughed.
“Sounds like a furniture store.”
Eventually, Claire suggested we work with an established nonprofit rather than manage everything ourselves.
A local organization called Harbor House already operated transitional apartments but had a long waiting list.
Its director, Anita Coleman, visited.
“This house could work,” she said. “But not cheaply.”
We scaled the plans down.
Six residents.
Four suites in the main house.
Two future rooms in the carriage house.
The study would become a library.
The dining room would remain.
And Evelyn’s garden would stay mostly intact.
That garden nearly started another family war.
Claire became defensive when I suggested accessible walkways through part of it.
“That’s how it starts,” she snapped.
“How what starts?”
“Everything getting replaced.”
There it was again.
The old fear.
Instead of arguing, I said:
“Show me which roses belonged to your mother.”
We walked outside.
Claire pointed to each plant.
