I told my mom one last time that it was time for her to leave her house. Either Alex would take her to New York, or we’d find a nursing home in Springfield. She stubbornly refused. At seventy-two, Mom’s health was deteriorating, but the house meant everything to her. She had lived there for years, and every corner held memories.

I reminded her of the dangers. “What if you fall and no one is around?” But she couldn’t fathom leaving. “This house is my life,” she said. Her words hit me deeply, stirring memories of all she had done for me over the years.

That evening, I called my wife, Joanna, with a suggestion: “What if we moved to the countryside?” After some thought, Joanna agreed. We moved, and though the transition was difficult, we adapted. Mom began thriving again, gardening with Joanna and finding joy in daily life.

Six months later, I realized moving had been the best decision. My work was more productive, and we embraced a slower, more fulfilling life. Our town began to thrive, attracting remote workers, and Mom became the heart of the community. Our daughter, named after her, now fills the once-empty room, completing the cycle.