That turned out to mean:
Groceries.
Doctor visits.
Medication pickups.
Fixing shelves.
Cleaning gutters.
Replacing lightbulbs.
Shoveling snow.
Opening jars she refused to admit she could not open herself.
“And what do I get?” I asked carefully.
She watched me quietly for a few seconds.
Then she said:
“When I die, everything I own becomes yours.”
I stared at her.
“You barely know me.”
“I know enough.”
