When I fell and broke my hip at seventy-seven, my daughter Sharon offered to move in and help me recover. I thanked God for her. I truly did.
But recovery came and went, and Sharon stayed. Slowly, the house stopped feeling like mine. My things went into boxes. Her furniture came in. She took the big bedroom and put me in the small one that used to be the sewing room.
When her friends came over, I’d hear her call it ‘my house.’ She’d talk about the renovations she’d do ‘someday,’ as if someday had a date on it and that date was my funeral.
One evening I was coming slowly down the hall and I heard her on the phone. ‘Once Mom’s gone,’ she said, laughing, ‘all of this is mine anyway, so I might as well fix it up how I want.’
I stood very still in that hallway. I was old, and I was tired, and she was counting on both of those things. The next morning, while she was at the store, I called my lawyer and asked for the first available appointment.
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