Mom and Dad set up a quasi-temporary residence a few blocks away in another pre-war building before the fourth change-over, and I think it was partly because they’d had enough, but maybe also because they were grooming me. I was graduating from college right around that time, planning to move back in with them so that I could start a job I’d been offered before graduation. My plan was to move out in a few months, likely into a cramped studio apartment someplace, but they handed me the keys to this penthouse apartment and, by implication, responsibility for upkeep of the penthouse. I wasn’t going to make much, this being my first job and all, I drily pointed out to them, “so I’m not sure I can cover things. This is a penthouse overlooking Central Park, after all, not Brooklyn. I wish it wasn’t, but ….”

They smiled; and Dad winked as he pulled me aside, after mom turned away to finish packing, “of course we won’t leave you hi and dry, sunshine. You’ll have more than enough for everything. But you’ll be responsible for this place. Just do this for mom, ok? The apartment has belonged to Nana’s family ever since the building was built, so it holds a special place in mom’s heart, so you know how much trust your mom is showing you by doing this, right?”

Well, we’re a few years removed from all that now, and I thought that if my parents had stuck around they would have loved the new owner of the other penthouse apartment, who was the fifth, and hopefully the last one for a while. She was a sea change from everyone who’d come before her. For example, she’d left renovation plans and the work schedule in my mailbox weeks in advance of the start date, asking if I’d had any objections to any of it, which showed me she was considerate. She’d hired a contractor who ran a thoroughly professional crew, scheduling their work only after I’d left in the morning, and made sure they were gone by the time I tended to get home – which showed she took an organized approach to her stuff. And once, when I had to go home briefly to get something I’d forgotten when I’d left in a rush that morning, I noticed that the work crew wore little “booties” when they walked to and from her apartment to the service elevator, which ensured they didn’t leave any track-marks all over the pristine hallway floor, as the other work crew had done years before – mom was speechless when I told her. Such a difference from that prick who’d torn my mom’s precious antique wooden floors up.