“Well, yeah,” said Trevor. “Why stop at Seaside?”

“That’s the one my mother liked,” I said. “I mean, she thought about all this a lot. She budgeted for it.”

“Can’t you kick in a little extra?” said Trevor. “Your mum said you were a lawyer.”

“Um,” I said after a moment. “I’m not practising. I work as a legal consultant for a couple of —”

“Still,” Trevor said, cutting me off. “Good money in that, I imagine.” He blew on his tea.

This was a conversation from which my decorous mother would have found a way to excuse herself. Before I could imagine how, Trevor said: “I can call a couple of buddies of mine.”

“You have so many buddies,” I remarked, stalling.

“Get you in to see a couple of places.”

“Ok,” I said after a moment. Because suddenly I was imagining an alternative to Seaside. For just a bit more money. For the rest of the day after visiting that facility, I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about how all the women working there had messy hair — stray, random tresses falling from or poking out of their twisted buns and ponytails. It had upset me, stirred up a nameless, obsessive anxiety that I couldn’t shake, that I decided to just lump in with all the other crappy feelings of the day. But thinking about it now, I realized my preoccupation with the hair at Seaside wasn’t just a nitpick — it was a visual gauge of overwork. It meant these women went through their entire days with no time to check themselves in a mirror, to straighten their barrettes or re-tie their ponytails. So the hair just got crazier and crazier, the ponytails more cockeyed, with every frantic hour of their day.

Trevor said he would pick us up tomorrow. And I was lulled, drifting, imagining a professional bustle of sleek, shining ponytails when I agreed.

These days, when I tell this story to friends, it’s always the moment Trevor lets himself in with his key the next day — a Sunday — that makes them kind of whoop in their seats. Or flop backward in a gesture of full-bodied incredulity. Or just stare at me like I’m an idiot. But, I explain, I just hadn’t gotten around to opening the front door and leaving the screen unlocked — as I typically did before the home care people arrived. Trevor possessed a key, so clearly he was used to letting himself in. Apparently my mother had given it to him for both of their convenience. The key was sanctioned. She hadn’t given it to any of the other care workers, but that was because, I assumed, they were on a rotation — you never knew who would be coming to bathe Kelli from week to week. Trevor, however, only covered walks, and he turned up like clockwork every Tuesday and Friday morning at ten on the dot.

But this was Sunday, some of my friends argue, and he wasn’t working, he was visiting. Yes, I say, but why would he deviate from habit? This was a house he had a key for, and whenever he came over, he would open the door and come in. That was his routine. So it’s understandable he’d do the same thing on Sunday he would’ve done on a Tuesday or Friday. Isn’t it?