I stand on the townhouse steps and ring the bell six times before anyone answers. My parents aren’t used to this yet either: answering their own door, picking up their own groceries, weathering the knowing stares of their well-off neighbors. Most of the texts I checked on the bus were about how terrible it’s been. I stared at the screen for a long time, thumbs poised to reply, before giving up and tucking my phone away.

What is there to say, after all? My parents were two of the wealthiest people in the city not that long ago. They had everything they could possibly ever need. All they had to...