My mother-in-law turned up on my porch with three suitcases and called the police when I wouldn’t let her in. Then the officer asked my husband one straightforward question about who owned the house — and the silence that followed was the ugliest thing I have ever stood through.

“Ardan. Is she already on her way?”

He hung up.

At eleven minutes past five a silver SUV came up the drive. Norma got out first. Then Halla.

Which told me it had been arranged well before four seventeen.

They started unloading. Three cases, two storage boxes, a garment bag, a washbag, a carrier of prescription boxes, and a peace lily.

The bell went. I opened my own front door.

Norma smiled at me.

“Which room has he done out for me?”

“He hasn’t done a room.”

The smile went off her face like a light.

Halla said, “Oh, Rowan, don’t.”

I looked past them at the pile on my path.

“You’ve arrived on my porch with enough belongings to move in.”

“Ardan said I could stay here.”

“You’re welcome in as a guest. You’re not moving in today.”

“My son lives here.”

“He does.”

“Then move aside, sweetheart. These are heavy.”

I did not move.

“The bags stay outside until Ardan and I have had an actual conversation.”

Halla laughed and said, “She’s seventy-four.”

“Yes, Halla. He told me. It hasn’t stopped being true.”

And Norma’s whole face changed and she said, “My son doesn’t need permission to let his own mother into his house.”