My son’s phone call
A week after the funeral, the phone rang.
That was my son, Donald.
Her voice sounded hoarse and impatient on the line.
“Mom, we aren’t asking for your opinion, we are ordering you to give it. The house is sold. You might as well start packing.”
I was silent for a moment.
I kept looking at the garden.
Then I asked softly:
Have you found a buyer for my house yet?
Donald let out an irritated sigh.
“Mom, we are trying to help you. The sooner you accept that this is best for everyone, the easier it will be.”
For everyone.
I repeated those words in my head.
“For everyone,” I whispered.
Then I calmly added:
And where exactly do I need to go?
The answer came immediately.
As if he had practiced it several times before he called me.
In Darlene’s basement. That is the perfect place for you. You have your own little corner there.
Darlene was my daughter.
She lived twenty minutes from here with her husband and their daughter Kathleen, who had just started her university studies.
Donald kept talking.
You could help Kathleen when she comes home from university. Maybe by cooking. That way you keep her occupied a bit.
I felt the silence stretch out between us.
‘How generous,’ I replied.
Donald interpreted my calmness as agreement.
Exactly. See? Everyone wins.
The rest is on the next page.
