So, how's it going?" my daughter asked. Her voice rose with the question, as if anticipating my upbeat answer.

I didn't disappoint: "Great!" I said. "I love it -- the views, the building's staff, my mornings at the East Bank Club. Terrific!"

I had it planned out perfectly. Sonia, the young woman whom I hired to help, would arrive outside my building at 9 a.m. "Park your car in the driveway," I instructed, "leave your flashers on. I'll have a cart filled with small boxes which we'll put in your trunk, and then drive less than a mile to my new apartment."

Again!" Ronnie said. "You're moving again!"

I could hear the teasing in his voice. My darling brother, three years older than I, and on the cellular line from Kansas City, had just learned the news that in June, I'd be leaving my downtown apartment for one in River North.

"How many is that?" he said, his tone softening into the familiar sweet bonding we've achieved over the years.

Tommy died November 2, 2012. Six months later, I moved from the house we shared to a convertible (bedroom hidden by a sliding door) studio at Kingsbury Plaza -- a River North highrise.

The apartment and location appealed for several reasons: it was the same monthly cost as my home mortgage, there would be an extra bed for a daughter or an out-of-town guest, and it was steps away from the East Bank Club.

These were my theories: he was dead, another woman had lured him, he is a Trump supporter and saw my opposition rants, or he read my blogs and feared he might become a subject.