“But not ours?”
“No.”
Her expression hardened.
“Are you seriously doing this because of what David said?”
I closed my book.
“You’re thirty years old, Sarah. I’m confident you can operate a washing machine.”
Then I walked away.
But later that morning, I noticed something beneath a pile of mail.
A glossy brochure.
Sunset Pines — Independent and Assisted Living for the Golden Years.
I stared at it.
Suddenly, being called a burden made much more sense.
I was sixty-four.
Healthy.
Independent.
I exercised regularly, managed my own finances, drove myself everywhere, and volunteered in my community.
I didn’t need assisted living.
But David and Sarah needed a house.
And mine was completely paid off.
If they convinced me to leave, they could have a four-bedroom home in a desirable neighborhood practically to themselves.
That afternoon, I went to the bank.
Years earlier, after Arthur died, I had added David to my checking account for emergencies.
I had nearly forgotten about it.
“I’d like a new account in my name only,” I told the teller. “And deactivate the cards connected to the old one.”
Walking out of that bank felt surprisingly good.
Then I went grocery shopping.
Salmon.
Vegetables.
A bottle of wine.
Everything I wanted.
Nothing for David.
Nothing for Sarah.
That evening, David opened the refrigerator.
“Mom, where’s my meal prep? Where’s the protein powder?”
“I only shopped for myself.”
Silence.
Over the next few days, more things changed.
I stopped doing their laundry.
Stopped buying their groceries.
And when David complained that the Wi-Fi wasn’t working, I calmly explained that I had changed the password.
His jaw dropped.
“We live here too!”
“Then you’re welcome to arrange and pay for your own service.”
He stared at me in disbelief.
I smiled.
