When Ernest became ill, I sold the wedding earrings he had given me to pay for his medicine.
When Austin lost his job, I emptied my savings because he said he only needed temporary help.
When Chloe had her baby, I spent three months sleeping on their couch and waking for bottles while she told everyone I was “so lucky to have purpose.”
Yet at Ernest’s funeral, my son didn’t embrace me.
He looked past the cemetery dirt on my shoes and asked, “Mom, have you thought about what you’re going to do with the house?”
I carried that question with me all week.
So when Austin returned in a new shirt and dark sunglasses, speaking with the demanding tone Chloe had encouraged, I already understood what he had become.
“Mom, we’re going away to the Bahamas for a few days.”
“That’s nice, son.”
“You’re going to watch the pets.”
