My son won the lottery, kicked me out of the house, and said: “You’re worthless! Go live in a nursing home.” I wandered aimlessly to clear my mind. When I sat down on a bench, a homeless man walked up to me, smiled, and said: “You look just like my late wife…”

Blaine shook his head bitterly. “Meanwhile, he was probably counting the days until you’d give up and die, too, so he could inherit whatever was left.”

The waitress came by to refill our coffee and take our order. Two eggs over easy, wheat toast, and hash browns for me. The same breakfast I’d ordered at diners for 40 years. A small comfort in the chaos of everything else changing.

Blaine ordered the same thing, and I wondered if he remembered it was what we used to share on Sunday mornings when we were young and couldn’t afford two full meals.

“What kept you alive?” I asked when the waitress had gone. “During the worst of it.”

“Spite, mostly,” he said with a humorless laugh. “Anger at Richard. Anger at myself for being stupid enough to trust him. Anger at you for dying and leaving me alone to figure everything out.”