“We’re putting you in a nursing home. You’re too old to be useful.”
Jacqueline, my daughter-in-law, had said it less than thirty minutes ago, as casually as someone reading a grocery list. She didn’t even pause while pouring herself a glass of chilled champagne for the New Year’s Eve party downstairs.
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The party I wasn’t invited to.
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My son, Mason—my only child, the boy I raised alone on a shoestring after his father died of a sudden heart attack—had stood behind her. He stared at the expensive Italian slate tiles they’d installed last spring. Tiles I’d helped pay for with the modest inheritance my parents left me.
He didn’t defend me.
That silence hurt more than her words ever could.
“Mom… it’s for the best,” he finally mumbled, eyes fixed anywhere but my face. “You’ll have people your age. Activities. Bingo. It’s… a nice place.”
A nice place—like loneliness could be solved with fluorescent lights and scheduled fun.
