Difficult?
I had just buried the man I’d loved for four decades.
I was barely sleeping, barely eating, and struggling to breathe without feeling the enormous emptiness he’d left behind.
Yet somehow, I was the difficult one.
Then Vanessa folded her arms.
And said something I would remember for the rest of my life.
“”Now that he’s gone, just cry, pack your things, and go live on the streets.””
For a moment, I honestly believed I had misunderstood her.
“”What did you say?””
She stepped closer.
“”You heard me. Daniel and I need this house. We have a family to think about. You’ve had your life here, Margaret. It’s time to move on.””
I looked at my son.
He stared at the carpet.
“”Daniel,”” I whispered, “”are you really going to let her speak to me like that?””
He rubbed his forehead.
“”Mom, Vanessa’s just being practical.””
Practical.
That was the word he used to describe throwing his seventy-one-year-old mother out of her own home.
I thought about the Christmases I had worked instead of spending with him.
The overtime shifts I had accepted to pay his college tuition.
The countless times my husband and I had emptied our savings to rescue him from financial trouble.
I thought about every insult I’d swallowed because he was my only child.
And then I remembered something else.
Three weeks before my husband died, he had taken my hand in his hospital room.
He was terribly weak, his voice barely audible above the soft beeping of the monitors.
He had pressed a small brass key into my palm.
“”Keep this safe, Margaret,”” he’d whispered.
I frowned.
“”What is it for, sweetheart?””
He squeezed my fingers.
