While I lay awake in the bed I’d shared with Nicholas, staring at the ceiling and listening to the familiar creaks of our old farmhouse, my children were making their final preparations. Morning came with the smell of coffee, the expensive kind Brandon had brought from Boston because our local store brand was “undrinkable.” I dressed slowly, my joints stiff with grief and age and the cold knowledge of what my children had become.
When I came downstairs, they were waiting with a small suitcase I didn’t recognize.
“We packed some essentials for you,” Melissa said brightly. “Brandon and I thought we’d drive you to look at Sunny Pines today. It’s a beautiful retirement community just two hours from here.”
“I’m not going to any retirement community,” I replied, pouring myself coffee. “This is my home.”
“Mom, be reasonable,” Brandon said. “The paperwork is done. We close with the developers next week. You can’t stay here.”
I looked at my son—really looked at him—and saw nothing of Nicholas in his face. Nothing of the boy who had once followed his father through the orchard at dawn, asking endless questions about pollination and pruning. Nothing but a stranger who saw me as an inconvenience to be managed.
“I need my medication from the bathroom,” I said quietly. “And I’d like to take some photos.”
“Sure, Mom,” Melissa agreed, relief evident in her voice. “Take whatever personal items you want. We can send the rest later.”
I moved through my home one last time, touching the worn banister Nicholas had sanded and re-varnished every five years. The quilt my grandmother had made that draped across our bed. The window seat where I’d read stories to my children on rainy afternoons.
