I stayed with my son and his wife after my surgery. At first, my daughter-in-law acted supportive, but the second my son left for a business trip, she showed her true colors. “YOU’RE A BURDEN.
GET OUT!” she hissed and dumped me at a shelter. She never imagined what would happen when my son returned. At 67, I never thought I’d end up sleeping on a cot next to strangers who’d lost everything.
But here I am, telling you about the three days that changed my relationship with my son forever. It started with my hip replacement surgery last month. The doctor was clear about recovery time.
“Diana, you’ll need help for at least six weeks,” she said, flipping through my chart. “Walking, cooking, even getting dressed will be challenging.”
When my son, Daniel, came to pick me up from the hospital, he wouldn’t hear about me going home alone. “Mom, you’re coming with me,” he said, gently helping me into his car.
“Claire and I have everything ready. The guest room has fresh sheets, extra pillows, and even those books you like.”
I squeezed his hand. “Danny, I don’t want to be a burden, dear.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.
You raised me by yourself after Dad died. This is payback time.”
His smile was so warm and genuine. How could I argue with that?
“Well, when you put it that way, I suppose I have no choice.”
Daniel’s house in Redwood Street was beautiful, with all modern furniture and spotless surfaces. Claire had prepared the guest room like he promised. Everything looked perfect on the surface.
But I noticed little things that made me uneasy — the way Claire’s smile tightened when Daniel helped me up the stairs, how she’d sigh just loud enough for me to hear when I asked for water, and the forced cheerfulness in her voice when she said, “Of course, Diana. Whatever you need.”
“Maybe I’m imagining it,” I told myself the first few days. “She’s probably just stressed about something.”
I tried to be the perfect guest.
I stayed in my room most of the time, kept the TV volume low, and thanked Claire for every little thing. Daniel did most of the actual caring, like reminding me about pills, driving me to follow-up appointments, and even helping me shower safely. “You’re doing great, Mom,” he’d say after each small victory.
“The therapist says you’re healing faster than most people your age.”
Claire would hover in the doorway during these conversations, her arms crossed, but she never said anything negative… not when Daniel was around. “I’m lucky to have such a caring son,” I’d tell her, hoping to bridge whatever gap existed between us.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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