After Michael kicked me out of the house, I got a job as a cook in a small downtown diner. Every day when I left work, I would see the same lady sitting on the corner asking for spare change. She was older than me, with a face weathered by the sun and trembling hands. Something in her eyes reminded me of my own mother.
I started to stop in front of her. I would give her some coins, sometimes a roll left over from the kitchen. We never talked much—just a nod, a tired smile—and I would continue on my way to the boarding house where I now lived alone.
I was 69 years old when my son told me there was no longer room for me in that house. He didn’t raise his voice. There was no scene. He just looked at me from across the table and said it was time for me to find my own space. That he had his life, his plans, and that I needed to understand.
Understand what? I didn’t know until much later.
I remember packing my things in an old duffel bag. Clothes, some documents, a photo of Michael when he was little. Nothing else. I didn’t have much. I had lived my entire life caring for that house, for that son, for that family that was now shutting the door on me with a cold courtesy that hurt more than any insult.
