I was left alone in our suburban house, the one with the mosaic patio where we raised Daniel, where we celebrated every birthday, every Christmas.
But after the funeral, the silence became unbearable.
Daniel came to visit me two weeks later.
He had Emily on his arm and that smile I knew since he was a boy—the smile he used when he wanted to ask me for something.
“Mom,” he said while having coffee in the kitchen, “Emily and I are looking for a house. We want something bigger for the kids, but the prices are impossible.”
Emily nodded, stroking her mug with her perfectly painted coral nails.
“The down payment for the house we want is $68,000. We’ve been saving for a year, but we only have half.”
They didn’t need to say more.
“How much do you need?” I asked.
Daniel looked down.
“If you sold this house, Mom, you could come live with us. You wouldn’t be alone. The kids adore you. It’s a win-win.”
