“You need someone checking on you. At least for a few weeks.”I called my son, Thomas. Told him what the doctor said.
“Mom, come stay with us. We’ll take care of you.”
It sounded like love. Like concern. Like family.
I packed a suitcase. Moved into his house. Expected to sleep in the guest room. To be part of the household.The first week was normal. I had the guest room. Small but comfortable. Sarah, my daughter-in-law, made dinner. Thomas checked on me.
Then Sarah got pregnant. Unexpected. They hadn’t been trying.
Suddenly everything changed.
“Mom, we need to use the guest room for the nursery. We’re going to set up a cot in the garage. Just temporarily. Until we figure out a better arrangement.”
“The garage?”
“It’s insulated. We’ll make it comfortable. It’s only for a little while.”That first night in the garage, I wore two sweaters under my robe. The temperature was barely above freezing. My breath came out in visible puffs.
A folding cot. A thin blanket. A flashlight on a nail. Wind coming under the door.
