I made my mom leave her home when she was seventy-two years old.
I still remember how I stood in the doorway, arms crossed, telling myself I was being practical, not cruel. The house had been left to me by my father. He’d written it clearly in his will, and after he passed, everything felt settled—legally, at least. My three kids were growing fast. Toys were spilling into hallways, school bags crowded every corner, and the noise never stopped. We needed space. That was the truth I clung to.
For illustrative purposes only
My mother listened quietly as I explained it all. I expected tears, anger, maybe even a fight.
But she didn’t argue.
She simply smiled—a small, tired smile—and said, “I will only take my plant with me.”
That should have stopped me. It didn’t.
I asked her where she wanted to go, already uncomfortable, already impatient to move on from the conversation.
She looked at me gently and replied, “Take me to the least expensive nursing home. I know you don’t earn much, and I don’t want you to spend all your money on your sick mother.”
The word sick made me shift uncomfortably. I nodded and agreed, relieved she wasn’t asking for more. Relieved she was making it easy for me.
The day she left, she walked out slowly, carrying nothing but a small, worn bag and that green potted plant she’d watered every morning for years. I didn’t help her to the car. I told myself she was strong enough. I told myself I’d visit soon.
I didn’t.
For illustrative purposes only
Life filled the space she left behind. The kids spread out into new rooms. The house felt louder, fuller—and strangely hollow. Sometimes I noticed the empty corner where her chair used to be, or caught myself listening for the soft clink of her teacup in the evening. I pushed those thoughts away. Guilt was inconvenient.
Forty days later, my phone rang.
Continued on next page:
