Mom and I have lived in this house together—her house—for five years now. Dad died last year, God rest his soul. Life is a bit easier now, a bit calmer now, a lot lonelier now. I still live here. And I work here. I’m here every day. I came down from my home-office mid-morning to retrieve a tool from the garage, and found Mom sitting on the toilet, with the bathroom door open as wide as it would go. “Mom,” I complained, shielding my eyes and shutting the door. “You have to shut the door.” She giggled something about not expecting to see me. “I live here, Mom. I work here, too. I’m always here.” “Oh well,” she said, “I guess I was just lazy.” Indeed. Without being mean-spirited, I can confirm that, for Mom, there is no effort too small to be avoided in the name of laziness. Including shutting the bathroom door. And including flipping a light switch. Many afternoons, I find the porch lights burning at 4:00 p.m. in summertime. “Mom, the sun won’t set for another five hours. Why is the porch light on?” I ask. “Oh,” she says, “I was just being lazy. I flipped the switch when I went to the bathroom so I wouldn’t have to flip the switch later.” I flipped the switch to off. A few days later, I came down mid-morning to get something from the kitchen. The bathroom was open wide, the light was on, and…well…you get the picture. “Mom,” I complained, “shut the door.” I shielded my eyes—from a sight I just don’t want to see—and shut the door. “Oh,” she laughed, “I didn’t expect to see you.”