You were standing in the kitchen of your house in Scottsdale, Arizona, slicing carrots and zucchini for a pot of beef stew when you heard the sound of an SUV rolling up the driveway.
At first, you thought maybe it was a delivery. Then you heard doors slam. More than one. You wiped your hands on a dish towel, stepped toward the window, and froze when you saw your in-laws unloading half their life onto your porch.
Two giant suitcases. Three overstuffed duffel bags. A cardboard box labeled MEDICATIONS. A folded walker. And, for some reason, a framed painting that looked like it belonged in a doctor’s waiting room in 1998.
Your mother-in-law, Patricia, didn’t knock.
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