It’s an enduring image, the woman’s expression. Her face is rigid, pinched with pain. She’s losing her home and trying not to dissolve, but the magnitude of the event is triumphing over her emotional poise. It’s 1992 and all my 8 year-old brain can think of is racing upstairs to my new room in the roof. But this woman crying in the kitchen is reluctant to leave and it seems callous to hurry her. We stand, awkwardly silent. Everything about the moment is acutely uncomfortable. Eventually she relinquishes the keys. Her home becomes our home, our joy becomes her sorrow.