At forty-five, Lisa's inheritance arrived in three forms: her mother's arthritis, curved spine, and empty savings account. She recognized them all – they'd been coming for years, wrapped in double shifts and missed doctor's appointments, in grocery store mathematics and deferred dreams.

"Just like your grandmother," the doctor said, studying Lisa's x-rays. "The wear pattern's identical. Housekeeping work?"

"IT support," Lisa corrected. "But Mom cleaned houses. Grandma too." She didn't mention the weekend cleaning jobs she'd taken after the tech company switched to contractors, cutting their health insurance. Or how her daughter Ashley now cleaned offices after school, despite Lisa's promises that things would be different for her.

Her college roommate Rachel posted photos of her daughter's Stanford graduation. Their paths had diverged slowly at first – small differences in starter homes, vacation choices, preventive care. But time was an amplifier. Rachel's parents had paid for her education; Lisa's debt had kept her from saving for Ashley's. Rachel had taken restorative yoga while Lisa took ibuprofen. Rachel's daughter had studied abroad; Ashley had studied around her work schedule at community college.

"You should retire," Ashley said, rubbing Lisa's shoulders after a ten-hour shift. "Like Rachel did."

Lisa smiled, remembering similar conversations with her own mother. "Soon," she lied, calculating months of mortgage payments, Ashley's tuition, her mother's prescriptions. She thought of the young programmer at work, fresh from bootcamp, who'd called her "outdated" in yesterday's meeting. Of the new AI tools that could replace her role. Of the growing gap between her skills and the market's demands.

Her phone buzzed: a medical bill for her mother's latest hospitalization. On her desk, Ashley's college withdrawal form waited for a signature, next to a brochure for coding classes they couldn't afford. Three generations of choices that weren't really choices, of doors slowly closing, of small pains becoming large ones.

Lisa opened her laptop to search for night cleaning jobs, her wrists aching as she typed. In her mother's room, the oxygen machine hummed – another inheritance, gathering interest.