I used to believe that having a child meant you would never be completely alone.
I was seventy-nine years old when I finally understood how wrong that belief could be.
My name was Peggy Larson, and until that spring, I had managed most things on my own.
I had my little house, my pension, and an old sedan that started every morning.
Nothing fancy.
Nothing expensive.
But it was mine.
My husband, Walt, had been gone for ten years.
After he died, I learned to handle the things we had always done together.
I learned how to fix a dripping faucet.
I learned how to change a lightbulb without climbing too high.
I even learned how to check the oil in my car.
Walt used to laugh whenever I got something right.
"See, Peg? You don't need me standing over your shoulder."
I missed hearing that.
Especially on quiet evenings.
Our son, Kevin, lived about twenty minutes away.
He was forty-something, old enough to know better, and young enough to keep making excuses.
I loved him.
That was the problem.
I had spent most of my life finding reasons to forgive him.
When he borrowed money and forgot to return it, I told myself he was struggling.
When he missed birthdays, I told myself work had kept him busy.
When he promised to visit and never appeared, I blamed traffic.
There was always something.
I suppose mothers can become very good at making excuses for their children.
Then came the accident.
It happened on a Wednesday morning.
I was making breakfast in my kitchen.
The kettle was heating, and I had just taken a plate from the cupboard.
There was a little patch of water near the sink.
I must have stepped on it without noticing.
My foot slipped.
I reached for the counter, but my fingers caught nothing.
Then I hit the floor.
Hard.
The pain came so quickly that I couldn't even understand what had happened.
I tried to move my right leg.
I couldn't.
I remember looking at the kitchen clock.
It was 8:17.
I remember thinking I should have wiped that water up.
A foolish thought, really.
But when you are lying on the floor and cannot get up, your mind searches for something ordinary to hold on to.
I managed to reach my phone.
My hands were shaking.
The emergency operator kept asking me questions.
I answered as best I could.
By the time the ambulance arrived, I was crying.
The hospital confirmed what I had feared.
A broken hip.
Surgery.
Recovery.
And a long period without driving.
Eleven days in the hospital followed.
Eleven days of nurses coming and going.
Eleven days of medication, uncomfortable beds, and trying to sleep with the hallway lights shining under my door.
I kept telling myself I would be home soon.
I would see my kitchen again.
I would sit in my own chair.
I would drive to the grocery store whenever I wanted.
That last part mattered more than I admitted.
At my age, independence becomes precious.
Even a short drive to buy bread can make you feel like you still have control over your life.
Kevin came to visit twice.
I counted.
Not because I wanted to keep score.
Because I kept expecting him to come again.
The first visit was on a Saturday afternoon.
He walked into my hospital room carrying a paper coffee cup.
He didn't ask much about my pain.
He didn't ask how the surgery had gone.
He looked at the window, then at the television.
Finally, he mentioned my car.
"Mom, what are you planning to do about that sedan?"
I looked at him.
"What about it?"
"Well, you're not going to be driving anytime soon."
"The doctor hasn't said that."
"Come on, Mom. You need to be realistic."
I adjusted the blanket over my legs.
"I'll decide when I get home."
Kevin sighed.
He had a way of making my answers sound like inconveniences.
"I'm only trying to help."
I didn't argue.
He stayed for perhaps fifteen minutes.
Then he said he had somewhere to be.
The coffee he brought remained untouched on my bedside table.
His second visit came several days later.
This time, he didn't bring anything.
He sat in the chair beside my bed and started talking about the weather.
Then he brought up the car again.
"Have you thought any more about selling it?"
I stared at him.
"Why would I sell it?"
"Because it's going to sit in the driveway."
"That's where it belongs."
"Mom, you could use the money."
I didn't like the way he said that.
Not because he was suggesting something practical.
Because he sounded as though the decision had already been made.
"I have my pension, Kevin. I don't need to sell my car."
He rubbed his forehead.
"I'm just saying it doesn't make sense to keep paying for something you can't use."
There was no loan on the car.
There was no payment.
I had owned it for years.
I wanted to tell him that.
Instead, I turned toward the window.
"I'd rather talk about something else."
He didn't.
A few minutes later, he stood up.
"Think about it, Mom."
Then he left.
I watched him walk down the hospital corridor.
I felt disappointed.
But I didn't yet feel suspicious.
That is something I have thought about many times since.
How easily I accepted the things he said.
How little I questioned his interest in my belongings.
After eleven days in the hospital, I was transferred to rehabilitation.
The first few days were miserable.
Learning to stand again was harder than I expected.
The therapists were patient, but my body didn't seem interested in cooperating.
I used a walker.
I practiced taking small steps.
Sometimes I had to stop halfway down the hallway because my hip hurt too much.
I hated needing help.
I hated asking someone to bring me water.
I hated having to wait when I needed something simple.
But I kept going.
I wanted to get home.
I wanted my own bed.
My own kitchen.
My own front door.
Kevin called occasionally, but his conversations were short.
He always seemed to have something else to do.
One afternoon, he asked whether I had found anyone to look after the house.
"I have a neighbor checking the mail."
"Okay."
"And the plants are fine."
"Good."
Then came another question.
"Do you still have both sets of car keys?"
I frowned.
"Why?"
"Just wondering."
I told him I had one set in my purse and another in the kitchen drawer.
He said nothing more.
Looking back, that question bothered me.
At the time, I didn't think much of it.
Kevin had a spare key to my house.
I had given it to him years earlier.
It was supposed to be for emergencies.
If I fell.
If I became sick.
If something happened while I was away.
I had never imagined he would use it for anything else.
Finally, the rehabilitation center cleared me to return home.
I wasn't fully recovered.
I still needed my walker.
I still needed to move slowly.
But I could manage short distances.
A nurse helped arrange transportation.
We left on a Tuesday morning.
I remember how happy I was when I saw the familiar streets.
The little bakery near the intersection.
The pharmacy where I bought my prescriptions.
The old maple tree outside the corner house.
Home was close.
When the nurse helped me out of the vehicle, I looked toward my driveway.
Then I stopped.
Something was missing.
I stared at the empty space.
My sedan wasn't there.
For a moment, I thought the nurse had dropped me at the wrong house.
I looked at the number beside the front door.
It was mine.
I looked again.
The driveway was empty.
I felt a strange tightness in my chest.
"Is everything all right?"
The nurse asked.
I nodded, although I wasn't sure.
"Yes. I think so."
She helped me up the front steps.
I unlocked the door.
The house smelled exactly as it had before I left.
The kitchen clock was still ticking.
My slippers were beside the sofa.
But outside, where my car should have been, there was nothing.
I put my walker beside the kitchen table.
Then I picked up the telephone.
There was only one person I could call.
Kevin.
Click here to continue reading: PART 2: My Son Had an Answer Ready Before I Finished Asking Where My Car Had Gone
I Came Home From Three Weeks of Recovery and Found an Empty Driveway Where My Car Had Always Been
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