I saw the moving van parked in front of the house across the street and knew it wasn’t a good sign. Molly had lived in that house 50 years until she became ill and her family placed her in a nursing home. The moving van meant she wasn’t coming home.

I walked across the street to talk to her son, Fred. We’d only met a couple of times, but he’d seemed like a nice person.

I asked him how Molly was doing, and I already dreaded the answer.

“Mom doesn’t have much time left,” he said. “They are making her as comfortable as possible at the home. I’m cleaning out the house. I’v...