I came home from the hospital after chemo, barely able to stand.

“Get out of here, you ridiculous old woman. Go find somewhere else to be. This house isn’t yours anymore.”

Those words hit me like stones. I was standing on the other side of the gate, my small suitcase on the ground, the soft chemotherapy scarf still wrapped around my head. I had just gotten out of the hospital after three days of needles, three days of poison running through my veins to kill the cancer. And my daughter-in-law, Valerie, was screaming at me from the window like I was a stranger.

“Matthew isn’t home, and I’m not opening it! You’re sick, probably contagious. I don’t want my daughter to see you like this, all pale and bald. Go on, get out of here!”

My legs trembled. The white gate of my house—the house where I had lived for forty years—was secured with a heavy padlock. The light blue scarf slipped a little from my head, and I felt a hot wave of shame. The world felt like it was collapsing. And the worst part, the very worst part, is that several neighbors came to their windows. Mrs. Davis, Mr. Henderson, Mrs. Lopez with her grandkids. They were all watching me. They all heard it when Valerie opened the window wider and threw a plastic bottle of water at me like I was trash.

“There! So you can’t say I left you to dehydrate.” The bottle landed at my feet and rolled onto the sidewalk.