“It’s soup,” I replied, polite but wary. “It’s what people make when they don’t know what else to do.”
Lila looked up, cheeks flushed. “Martha, this is Brock. He’s a friend.”
I forced a smile, nodding, though my heart dropped. My son wasn’t even cold in the ground, and this man was making himself at home, pulling bread from my pantry, and acting like the kitchen was his.
After Brock left, I found Lila at the sink, swirling her glass.
“Lila, Everett’s only been gone two weeks.”
She turned on me, eyes cold. “Everett is dead, Martha. Life moves on.”
I forced a smile.
My voice was barely there when I spoke.
“Mothers don’t get that luxury.”
***
From then on, everything shifted.
Lila stopped sitting with me for dinner. She vanished into Everett’s old office for hours, the door closed. The only sound was Brock’s voice echoing in the hallway. He was there nearly every day now.
One afternoon, I heard Brock whistling as he rearranged books in the living room. I walked in and found him moving Everett’s chess set.
“That’s my son’s,” I said quietly. “What are you doing with it?”
“Mothers don’t get that luxury.”
Brock looked up, surprised. “Just cleaning up. Lila said it’s time to make space.”
“Space for what?”
He just shrugged and carried the set out of the room.
I stood there, feeling the walls closing in.
***
That week, the house changed.
The walls that had always been a warm burnt orange were painted lilac. My crocheted blankets vanished from the couch, replaced by silver pillows and glass ornaments. Even my son’s photo in the hallway was boxed away.
That week, the house changed.
Ruth from next door paused on my porch, staring past me at the boxed photo.
“Martha, whose truck is in your driveway?” she asked softly.
I couldn’t answer.
***
One afternoon, Lila called me to the dining table. A stack of papers sat between us.
“You signed these last week, Martha,” she said, pushing them forward. “Remember? For your health, so I can help with bills, appointments, and all the things you forget.”
I stared at the signature. It was my handwriting, but it was shaky. And I didn’t remember writing it.
“You signed these last week, Martha.”
My hands trembled as I touched the paper. “Everything’s been so blurry, Lila.”
She stood, gathering up the papers. “It’s for your health. You need care. You’ll be better off somewhere you’re not alone.”
I nodded. What else could I do? The house didn’t feel like home anymore.
I felt small and tired, just a guest in my own story.
***
A week later, two men arrived with boxes.
One smiled gently. “Ma’am, we’re here to help you pack.”
“Everything’s been so blurry, Lila.”
Lila stood in the doorway. “You’ll be more comfortable in assisted living. It’s safer for everyone.”
I paused by the stove, my fingers tracing over it. I’d cooked meals for my son and my husband here for decades. The garden outside looked gray.
And before I knew it, my life was packed into two suitcases.
“Comfort isn’t what I asked the Lord for,” I whispered. “I just asked for my son back.”
No one answered. I let them lead me out, Everett’s sweatshirt pressed to my chest, trying to remember a time when home still felt like mine.
“I just asked for my son back.”
***
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