Susan Parker lived twenty minutes away. Twenty. Not two hours. Not in another state. Twenty minutes.
Ever since my father died nine years ago, she had insisted she was barely keeping her head above water. She said the bills were crushing her. The mortgage was impossible on one income. The utilities kept climbing. The insurance was too much. She cried the first time she asked for help, and I told her I would handle it.
I was twenty-eight then, building my career, newly married, trying to grieve my father while holding everyone together. I set up an automatic transfer for $4,500 a month and left it in place. Month after month. Year after year. I skipped vacations. Jacob and I delayed renovations. We told ourselves family came first. I never once asked for an accounting. She was my mother.
When she answered, her voice was light and almost bubbly.
“Hi, honey! I’m packing my bags.”
