The cottage was smaller than the Hampstead house, but it was brighter. The windows were lower, closer to the ground, allowing the winter light to flood the single-story space without the obstruction of multiple floors. It was designed for accessibility, though Marcus refused to call it that. He called it "efficient." He called the wide doorways "practical." He called the ramp at the entrance "a convenience for the movers."
I knew the truth. The stairs in the old house had become too much for his knees. The distance from the bedroom to the study was too far for his breath. We had moved not because we wanted to downsize, but because the house we had built for fifty years had finally outgrown the man who built it.
I stood in the kitchen, watching the kettle boil. The sound was sharp in the
