I didn’t call my guy.

I didn’t call my guy.

Because the truth was, there was no “guy.”

There was me.

For almost eleven years, I had been the one handling my mother’s house.

Not officially.

Not in a way anyone in the family ever talked about.

But every time the furnace needed servicing, I found the technician.

Every time the water heater acted up, I made the call.

When the roof leaked, I paid the emergency repair bill.

When Mom complained about her property taxes, I quietly transferred money into her account.

And for