I raised my son David in a little blue house on Sycamore Street. His father and I bought it when David was a baby, and after his father passed, David and I only grew closer. He checked on me constantly. Some might say he hovered, but I never minded.
When my sister died two states away, I was gone nearly two weeks handling the funeral and her affairs. David couldn’t get off work to come, but he called me every night. ‘Take all the time you need, Mom,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about anything here.’
I came home worn to the bone, wanting nothing but my own bed. I dragged my suitcase up the porch steps, put my key in the lock, and it would not turn. I tried again, thinking it was stuck. It wasn’t. The lock had been changed.
For a moment I just stood there, a seventy-six-year-old woman locked out of her own home, and a cold, awful thought crept in. Had David decided, while I was gone and grieving, that it was time to take the house? Had my own son locked me out?
I felt tears of humiliation start to sting. And then, through the blur, I saw it — a cream-colored envelope taped to the door just under the peephole, with ‘MOM’ written on it in David’s handwriting. My hands shook as I opened it.
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