I called Nathan.
He told me the foundation was considering a better location.
“The current building is inefficient, Mom. We’re exploring options.”
“Where are the residents?”
“They’ve been relocated.”
“Where?”
A pause.
“Caroline handles that.”
I hung up.
Then I stood in the rain looking at the boarded-up front door, remembering the first December we opened it.
A young woman named Beatrice had arrived carrying a newborn baby wrapped in a man’s winter coat.
She had no money.
No family willing to take her in.
And nowhere safe to sleep.
I gave her my coat.
Arthur carried her suitcase upstairs.
Beatrice stayed six months.
She later became our household manager, our closest friend, and one of the people Nathan had known since childhood.
For twenty-nine years, Beatrice Ellis had worked inside our home.
Caroline called her “the help.”
I called her family.
That evening, I found Beatrice sitting at my kitchen table with an unopened envelope in front of her.
She had been crying.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
She pushed the envelope toward me.
It was a copy of a letter sent to the remaining Vale House staff.
The foundation would permanently discontinue residential services at the Rose Street property.
The building was being prepared for sale.
And the proceeds would be directed toward a new administrative initiative.
I read the letter three times.
