For thirty-eight years, I worked at the same medical clinic. Through staff turnover, management changes, and even a couple of hospital rebrands, I stayed. Not because I had no choice, but because I believed my patients needed someone consistent—someone who would be there no matter what.
Nursing became my life, and when the time finally came to retire, I thought I had earned peace, dignity, and time with my family. At home, I shared my space with my son Thomas, his wife Delia, and their children, Ben and Lora. Technically, the house belonged to me, but I never reminded them of that.
I always said, “As long as I’m alive, no one in this family pays rent.” I carried the bills—utilities, food, insurance—because I wanted them to live without worry. Delia claimed she couldn’t work because the children kept her busy, though I often ended up caring for them myself. I didn’t mind—I loved those children more than anything.
But I couldn’t ignore Delia’s endless shopping trips. Shoes, dresses, handbags—her wardrobe grew while the kids’ shoes had holes. When I mentioned it, she would just smile and say, “Everything was on sale.” To keep the peace, I swallowed my frustration and covered the expenses.
Thomas was a kind man, but softhearted, much like his late father. When I pointed out the imbalance, he sighed, “Mom, please, don’t start.” I let it go. After all, my grandchildren adored me.
Lora often climbed into my bed whispering, “Nana, let me sleep with you.” And Ben, with his sweet imagination, once promised me, “When I grow up, I’ll buy you a castle. You’ll be my queen.” Those little moments were my treasures. When the clinic announced it was time for me to step down, I accepted it.
At seventy, I knew my career couldn’t last forever. Still, I asked for one last shift to say goodbye to my patients. My coworkers gave me a farewell party—cupcakes, balloons, and a mug that read: “Retired, not expired.” I laughed with them, though inside I was scared.
Afraid of silence. Afraid of being forgotten. That evening, I stopped at a bakery and bought a strawberry cream cake—Ben’s favorite.
I pictured placing it on the table, celebrating my new chapter with the family I had supported all these years. But when I reached the house, everything changed. The front door was locked.
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