I’ve always caught my son Nick when he fell—it’s what you do. I’d bandage his little cuts, laugh off his teen wreck in my hatchback, and greeted his wife, Kelly, with big hugs, even if her eyes stayed flat. So when they knocked, worn out, I didn’t pause. “Mom,” Nick said, slumped in my den, “jobs are gone—firm’s shipped out.” I squeezed his shoulder, “Stay here ‘til you’re set.” His shaky smile hit me—my one kid. “Also,” he hesitated, Kelly nudging, “put the house in my name? For a loan—to rebuild. We’ll square it.” My chest pinged, “The house?” “Just for banks,” he said. “You’re my son,” I nodded—temporary, I thought.
They settled in—I swapped my big bed for the nook, fed them, scrubbed their mess, dipped into savings as his search lagged. But the vibe soured. Kelly stopped appreciating; Nick zoned out; my rocker turned her “office” for their gig. My place, yet I tiptoed. Then, arms full of groceries, I spotted my suitcase by the exit—ominous. Kelly blocked the hall, “A senior home’s better for you.” Nick stared at his shoes. “This is mine,” I croaked. “Not now,” she shot back. “Safer there, your age.” Nick murmured, “Don’t push, Mom.” I left, just my wallet, broken.
A shelter lady welcomed me, no grilling, as I said, “One night—I’ll sort it.” On a slim mattress, eyeing a ceiling smear, pain turned to grit overnight. I texted a pal, vowing comeback. Morning came—Joe, my lawyer friend, rang, “House is yours—Nick’s papers flunked, still yours.” I grinned—his slip saved me. I grabbed a bare-bones flat, slept free. A week of prep with Joe, then I called Nick, firm, “House is mine—legal fact. Out by month’s end.” He sputtered, “I did it!” “Not right,” I said. Kelly’s shriek faded—he begged, “We can—” “Month’s end,” I ended it.
They split quick—no note, just dents in my floors. I paced my home, feeling it bloom—mine. Fresh paint, tulips by the walk, my rocker reclaimed—I woke solid. Nick texts sometimes—special days, a stray card. Word’s out Kelly left—trust snapped. I sip cocoa in my chair, sunset gilding my space, picturing the kid I’d die for and the man who cast me off. Love’s no blank check—nearest ones can wound most. Guess he knows that now.
