I had just set my travel bags down in my daughter’s new place in Houston, a second-floor duplex she’s renting while she goes to grad school, when I lit on the containers of succulents she had around the place. “These are fabulous,” I said, feeling slightly marginalized, since, after all, I had come over the hill from Florida like the cavalry to help her decorate, and now was seeing that, perhaps, (was it possible?) she didn’t need my help. “I can’t keep anything alive,” Paige said, confirming we’re related. I thought about the two fried flower pots flanking my back door, which I had just replanted for the third time this summer.