Eight years ago, my son, Samuel, and his wife, Everly, came back to live with us. They were struggling, and since Martha and I had the space, we thought opening our doors was the right thing to do. Samuel is our only child, and we wanted to give him the support he needed to build a solid future with his wife. For nearly a decade, our home—and our lives—revolved around them. We provided shelter, food, and love. Only later did I realize just how much that generosity was being abused.

That Tuesday started like so many others. Martha was in the kitchen, humming quietly while she arranged a vase of fresh flowers. Even at seventy-three, she carried the same gentle elegance that had captivated me more than forty-five years ago. I sat in my chair with the newspaper, listening to the familiar rhythm of our morning. Then, suddenly, the sharp wail of our newborn grandson split through the calm air.