The following morning, I got up early.
I didn't want anyone thinking I expected special treatment.
I made my bed.
I folded my nightclothes.
I put my shoes neatly beside the dresser.
Then I went into the kitchen.
Shawna was already moving around.
I offered to help with breakfast.
She accepted.
There was nothing particularly uncomfortable about our conversation.
We talked about ordinary things.
The children.
The weather.
The upcoming holidays.
Nobody mentioned the money.
Nobody mentioned the receipt.
And I didn't bring it up.
I had decided that if I was going to pay to stay there, I would at least make sure I wasn't causing them extra work.
That became my routine.
I cooked supper whenever I could.
I washed dishes.
I helped with little household chores.
When somebody needed a shirt repaired or a pair of trousers shortened, I took care of it.
I didn't charge them.
I never even thought about charging them.
Seth was my son.
Shawna was his wife.
The children were my grandchildren.
I had spent my whole life making things for people I loved.
That wasn't something I knew how to stop doing.
But the rent continued.
Every month, Seth left another little receipt on the dresser.
The first one had been uncomfortable enough.
The second one made it feel official.
By the third, I had stopped expecting him to change his mind.
I wrote another check.
Then another.
Four payments in total.
Each one was for four hundred and fifty dollars.
Eighteen hundred dollars.
I didn't make a speech about it.
I didn't ask for a discount.
I didn't tell him that I was his mother and not somebody renting a room from a stranger.
I simply paid.
There were evenings when I sat in that guest bedroom and listened to the rest of the family moving around downstairs.
Sometimes I could hear the television.
Sometimes I heard the children laughing.
I was glad they were happy.
I didn't want them to feel they had to behave differently because I was there.
Still, there was a difference between being included in a home and feeling that you belonged there.
I couldn't quite explain it at the time.
I just knew I had become careful.
Careful about how long I stayed in the bathroom.
Careful about leaving anything on the kitchen counter.
Careful about asking for help.
I didn't want to give anyone a reason to think I was difficult.
And I certainly didn't want to give Seth a reason to regret letting me stay.
The receipts were another matter.
I kept them.
Every single one.
I put them inside my sewing box.
I had no particular plan for them.
I wasn't collecting evidence.
At least, that wasn't what I told myself.
Maybe I simply wanted to remember exactly what had happened.
The little papers had his name at the top.
The amount was written underneath.
They were ordinary pieces of paper.
But I couldn't bring myself to throw them away.
A few weeks later, something happened that I hadn't expected.
It was February.
There was a choir concert at the high school, and my grandchildren were participating.
I went because I wanted to hear them sing.
I always enjoyed those school events.
The children never seemed to understand how proud their grandparents felt watching them stand on a stage.
I arrived early enough to find a seat.
Gaylene was sitting nearby.
Gaylene was Shawna's mother.
She lived in York, in a small one-bedroom apartment for seniors.
I had seen her at family birthdays and a few other gatherings.
We were polite with each other.
We weren't close.
That evening, however, there was room beside her.
I sat down.
She had brought a bag of popcorn.
We talked while waiting for the concert to begin.
She asked how I was settling into my new temporary arrangement.
I told her things were fine.
I said I was grateful to have somewhere to stay until my house was ready.
She nodded.
Then, during the break between performances, she leaned toward me.
"Are you comfortable in the guest room?"
I told her I was.
She smiled.
"That's the room I stayed in after my operation."
I looked at her.
I hadn't known that.
Gaylene explained that she had undergone knee surgery and needed somewhere to recover.
She couldn't manage everything alone while her knee healed.
Seth and Shawna had offered to let her stay with them.
She had spent five months in their guest bedroom.
Five months.
I remember thinking that was a long time.
Then Gaylene said something else.
"Those two wouldn't let me do a thing. Seth was always telling me to sit down and rest."
I smiled politely.
It sounded like something a son-in-law might do for his wife's mother.
Then a question came out of my mouth before I had properly considered it.
"Did he ask you to pay anything while you were there?"
Gaylene laughed.
Not an uncomfortable laugh.
A genuine one.
She looked at me as if I had asked whether Seth charged her for breathing.
"Pay? No, Carla. They wouldn't hear of it."
I felt something change inside me.
I tried to keep my expression normal.
I looked toward the stage.
Then back at her.
"Not anything at all?"
She shook her head.
"No. They took care of me."
I couldn't find the right words.
I could feel the popcorn bag resting between us.
I could hear people talking around us.
The children were getting ready to return to the stage.
But I was thinking about the four receipts inside my sewing box.
Four payments.
Eighteen hundred dollars.
Gaylene noticed my face.
Her smile slowly disappeared.
"Carla?"
I looked at her.
"What's wrong?"
I took a breath.
Then I told her.
I explained that Seth had asked me for four hundred and fifty dollars every month.
I told her about the little receipt pad.
I told her I had paid every month without arguing.
I even told her I had kept the receipts.
Gaylene didn't laugh this time.
She lowered the popcorn.
Then she placed it beside her on the seat.
"He's charging you?"
Her voice was quiet.
I nodded.
She looked at me for several seconds.
I couldn't tell whether she was angry or simply shocked.
Probably both.
I tried to make the situation sound smaller than it was.
I said I could afford it.
I said I didn't want to make trouble.
I said the arrangement had only been temporary.
But Gaylene wasn't looking at the stage anymore.
She was looking at me.
And I realized she understood something I hadn't wanted to admit.
The money wasn't the only thing that hurt.
It was the difference.
She had stayed in the same room for five months.
She hadn't paid a dime.
I had stayed for four months.
I had paid eighteen hundred dollars.
And both of us were family.
When the concert ended, Gaylene waited for me.
She walked with me toward the parking area.
The night was cold.
I remember pulling my coat tighter around myself.
Before we reached my car, she stopped.
Then she put her arms around me.
It was a firm hug.
The kind that made it difficult to pretend everything was fine.
She spoke quietly.
"I wish I had known."
I looked down.
She continued.
"You shouldn't have been treated that way."
I didn't answer immediately.
I didn't know what to say.
For the first time since I had arrived in Aurora, somebody had acknowledged that something was wrong.
And that person wasn't my son.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: I Left His House Without an Argument, But the Little Receipts Followed Me Into My New Life
I Thought My Son Was Giving Me a Place to Stay Until He Put a Price on the Guest Room
Part 2 of 20
