The phone call came on a Tuesday evening while I was still wearing my hospital scrubs, my feet aching after a twelve-hour shift caring for patients who actually appreciated my efforts. I was standing in the kitchen of the small house Richard and I had shared for twenty-six years, staring at the empty spot in the refrigerator where he used to keep his leftover lunches, when my phone buzzed with my son’s name. “I sold your car,” Andrew announced without preamble, his voice carrying that brisk efficiency he used when closing sales deals at work.
For a moment, I thought I’d misheard him. The kitchen suddenly felt too quiet, the hum of the refrigerator Richard had repaired just weeks before his heart attack the only sound breaking the silence. “Andrew, what did you say?”
“The Toyota, Mom.
I sold it yesterday. Got eight thousand for it, which is actually pretty good for a ten-year-old car.” The satisfaction in his voice made something twist in my chest. “I’ve already deposited the money into an account I set up to manage your finances.
You need to be practical now that Dad’s gone.”
I gripped the counter to steady myself, my fifty-eight-year-old hands suddenly trembling. The Toyota had been Richard’s pride—a reliable sedan he’d maintained meticulously, teaching me basic car maintenance so I’d never be stranded or taken advantage of by dishonest mechanics. “But I need that car for work,” I managed to say, trying to keep the panic from my voice.
“The hospital is across town. There’s no direct bus route.”
Andrew’s sigh crackled through the phone, impatient and dismissive. “Mom, be realistic.
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