Last week, I collapsed on my kitchen floor and called my son for help. He told me, “It’s Katie’s birthday. I’ll try tomorrow.” And that was the moment I stopped being his mother.
I could forgive him, but I didn’t want to. The pain began around noon. Just a strange pressure in my chest that wouldn’t go away.
I kept folding laundry—his t-shirts he never came back to collect. I smoothed the edges like I used to when he was little. Habits don’t die, even when love does.
By the time the sun dipped, the pressure had become heavier. I told myself I was fine. That’s what you do when you’re 65 and used to putting yourself second.
But I wasn’t fine. My hand drifted to my chest. I didn’t sit down.
Instead, I made soup. Chicken with dill, his favorite, not Katie’s. I had meant to save a bowl for him.
He said he’d stop by last week. Then the week before that. That bowl had been waiting a long time.
And then the bowl I just filled slipped through my fingers. The soup spilled. The bowl shattered.
I dropped with it. Cold tile hit my cheek. My arm wouldn’t lift.
My legs wouldn’t work. My fingertips found the phone. I tapped his name: Mark.
It rang. “Hey, Mom.” His voice was bright, too bright. I heard laughter, plates, background music.
I heard celebration. “Mark,” I managed. “I think something’s wrong.”
His tone changed, but only a little.
“Mom, it’s Katie’s birthday. We literally just sat down. Can I call you tomorrow?”
Those words sliced deeper than anything.
I forced my voice steady. “I think I need an ambulance.”
A pause. He sounded irritated.
“Are you being serious?”
“Yes,” I said. Then he said it. “Just call 911.
That’s what they’re for.” And he hung up. He hung up. He didn’t ask where I was.
He didn’t say he was coming. He didn’t say, “Are you alone?” or “Do you need me?” He didn’t ask anything. And I lay there listening to that silence.
The ambulance came. I don’t remember if I called or if the phone redialed itself, but someone showed up. I was lifted onto a stretcher, wheeled into fluorescent light.
Nurses moved fast. Machines beeped. I was asked questions.
Date of birth, allergies, medications. And I answered alone. No one walked in behind me.
No son, no visitor, no family. Later, the nurse gently fixed my gown. “Is someone coming?” she asked.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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