Twenty-three years ago feels like a lifetime ago, the day I moved in next door to June and Ken. Our relationship began as tenant and landlord when I settled into their old farmhouse, which was the family home she grew up in. Over the years, our dynamic evolved into a friendship. In later years, with both my parents having passed away, I came to regard them more as surrogate parents—ones without criticism, judgment, or expectation. Many occasions saw me popping over the fence for a drink and a chat. They relished hearing about my adventures, while I enjoyed listening to June’s tales from her teaching days in various locations worldwide—London, Fiji, and even a remote town in Canada where she braved sub-zero temperatures. The locals were always thrilled to have her return after holiday breaks. Seventeen years later, bulldozers arrived, and the old farmhouse met its fate. Despite having moved away, I continued to visit June and Ken regularly. They were both social butterflies, always ready for a drink and a chat. Anytime after noon was deemed suitable for opening a bottle of wine; with June and Ken, there was no such thing as just one drink. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t limit myself to one glass. Whenever I visited, I made sure I had no other plans for the day, often finding myself invited to stay for dinner. As I grew closer to June, I discovered her astute mind. It was she who suggested I become a dog groomer when I was exploring new business ideas. Nine years later, it has proven to be a wise choice. Despite my regular offers to assist, June rarely called upon me for help. She was incredibly generous, always offering me something as I left their home, even after she moved to Bayview. I’ll miss June and Ken’s warm welcoming hospitality and the sense of security their home provided me. I’m grateful to have had them in my life, relieved that June’s suffering was brief, and that now her wishes have been fulfilled.