The week after Walt's funeral passed slowly.
I had never liked being alone.
But I had always had him.
Even when he was working, I knew he would eventually come home.
Now there was nobody to come home to.
I still prepared too much food.
I still made two cups of coffee some mornings.
I still looked toward his chair whenever I heard a noise outside.
Grief makes ordinary things difficult.
One morning, I found myself standing in the kitchen holding his reading glasses.
I had been looking at them for several minutes.
Then I placed them on the table.
I sat down.
And I made a decision.
I wanted to know whether my children would make room for me if they believed I had nothing.
I wasn't planning to ask them for money.
I wasn't going to ask them to pay my expenses.
I only wanted to know whether they would offer me a place to stay.
Walt and I had kept our financial situation private for years.
The children believed we were comfortable but not wealthy.
Now I would tell them something different.
I would say that the medical bills had taken everything.
I would say the bank was taking the house.
I would say I had nowhere to go.
The story would be identical for all three.
I knew it wasn't an ordinary thing for a mother to do.
Looking back, I sometimes wonder whether I should have simply asked them for help honestly.
But I had reached a point where I wanted an answer without suggestions, explanations, or promises.
I wanted to see what they would actually offer.
I began with Michael.
He was my oldest.
He had always been the responsible one in school.
He was organized.
He was ambitious.
He had built a successful career and purchased a beautiful house.
I remembered visiting him the previous Christmas.
The house had five bedrooms.
One was used by his children.
Another was a guest room.
There was also an office and a large room upstairs that Michael used for exercise equipment.
I had once joked that he had more rooms than he knew what to do with.
He had laughed.
"That's what happens when you work hard, Mom."
I dialed his number.
It rang several times.
Then he answered.
"Hi, Mom."
His voice sounded busy.
I could hear typing in the background.
"Michael, can we talk for a minute?"
"Sure. Is everything okay?"
I looked down at the table.
Walt's glasses were beside my hand.
"No, sweetheart. Not really."
He stopped typing.
I explained that the hospital expenses had become overwhelming.
I told him that the savings had disappeared.
I mentioned the remaining bills.
Then I told him the bank was taking the house.
I had rehearsed the words.
But saying them aloud still made my throat tighten.
Michael didn't respond immediately.
I waited.
Finally, he spoke.
"Mom, are you serious?"
I told him I was.
He asked how much time I had.
I said I didn't know.
He sighed.
I could hear him moving away from his desk.
"That's terrible."
I waited for the next sentence.
I expected him to say he would come over.
I expected him to ask me to pack a bag.
Instead, he began explaining his situation.
Jenna's mother was planning a visit in the spring.
The guest bedroom had become Jenna's office.
There were work materials everywhere.
The children had their own routines.
Things were already crowded.
I listened quietly.
"Michael, I wouldn't need much room."
He paused.
"I know, Mom."
"I could stay temporarily."
Another pause.
Then he said something I wasn't prepared for.
"I just don't think this is a good time for us."
I stared at the kitchen wall.
He lived in a five-bedroom house.
I wasn't asking for a permanent bedroom.
I was asking for somewhere to sleep.
He continued talking.
He said he would look for information about senior housing.
There were communities designed for older people.
Some offered affordable apartments.
He thought that might be a better solution.
I asked whether he could at least let me stay for a few days.
He didn't answer directly.
Instead, he said he would send me some useful websites.
"Let me see what I can find, Mom."
I swallowed.
"All right."
He told me he had a meeting.
Then he said goodbye.
I placed the phone on the table.
For a long time, I didn't move.
I looked at the empty chair across from me.
Walt would have known what to say.
He probably would have made a small joke to help me feel better.
But Walt wasn't there.
An hour later, my computer made a notification sound.
Michael had sent an email.
There were three links.
One was for senior apartments.
One was for community housing.
The other was for a website listing local assistance programs.
I opened each link.
I looked at the photographs.
There were buildings with small balconies.
There were common rooms.
There were descriptions of services for older residents.
Some places looked perfectly respectable.
That wasn't the point.
My son had sent me three websites instead of opening one room in his house.
I printed the email.
I folded the paper.
And I placed it beside Walt's glasses.
Then I called Stephanie.
She answered quickly.
"Mom?"
Her voice sounded cheerful.
I told her I needed to talk.
She immediately became concerned.
"What happened?"
I explained the situation.
I told her about the medical bills.
I told her the bank was taking the house.
I said I had nowhere to go.
Stephanie began crying.
Loudly.
She said she couldn't believe this was happening.
She said losing Dad was already difficult enough.
She said I didn't deserve another problem.
I listened.
I even felt guilty for making her upset.
Then she asked whether I had any money left.
I told her I didn't.
Her crying became quieter.
There was a pause.
Then she asked me to repeat the answer.
I said there was nothing.
She took a breath.
"Nothing at all, Mom?"
I told her that was what I meant.
The hospital bills had taken everything.
She didn't say anything for a few seconds.
Then she started discussing possible places where I could go.
She mentioned community housing.
She mentioned charities.
She mentioned shelters that sometimes helped older people.
I couldn't believe what I was hearing.
"Stephanie, I'm your mother."
I didn't mean it as an accusation.
It simply came out.
She said she knew.
She said she was only trying to help me find somewhere appropriate.
I asked whether I could stay with her.
She went quiet.
Then she explained that her home was already busy.
The children had activities.
There wasn't much room.
She said it would be difficult to make arrangements.
I remembered the spare room in her house.
I remembered the photographs she had shown me of the newly decorated guest bedroom.
But I didn't argue.
I asked whether she could come and visit me.
She said she would try.
Then she mentioned that she needed to collect the children from tennis practice.
She told me she loved me.
I told her I loved her too.
The call ended.
I placed the phone beside Michael's printed email.
Two conversations.
Two children.
Two different ways of telling me they couldn't help.
I sat there looking at the paper.
I didn't want to hate them.
They were my children.
I remembered carrying Michael when he had a fever.
I remembered staying awake beside Stephanie when she had nightmares.
I remembered all the birthdays, school mornings, scraped knees, and family holidays.
I remembered the years Walt and I spent making sure they had everything they needed.
And now I was sitting in the kitchen wondering whether I had made a mistake somewhere.
Perhaps I had protected them too much.
Perhaps I had made life too comfortable.
Perhaps they had simply grown into people who didn't understand what it meant to help someone without calculating the inconvenience.
I didn't know.
I only knew I still had one child left to call.
Danny.
I looked at the clock.
It was late afternoon.
I picked up my phone.
Then I put it down again.
Danny worked long hours.
He was probably busy repairing cars.
He had two children.
His wife had her own responsibilities.
I knew they didn't have a spare room.
I knew their apartment was small.
And I knew he would feel terrible if he couldn't help.
I almost decided not to call him.
Then I remembered the reception hall.
I remembered him standing beside the sink.
I remembered how he had quietly washed every dish while everyone else sat talking.
I picked up the phone again.
I dialed his number.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: My Youngest Son Was Still Covered in Engine Grease When He Offered Me the Only Bedroom His Family Had
My Husband Left Me With One Secret, and I Never Imagined My Three Children Would Give Me Three Completely Different Answers
Part 2 of 20
