My name is Anita. I’m sixty-seven years old, and today I discovered exactly what my family thinks of me. It wasn’t a surprise, really. Deep down, I’d known for years, but knowing something and having it thrown in your face are two very different things.
I stood in Damon’s kitchen this morning, my arthritic fingers wrapped around an empty prescription bottle. The label read clearly: Heart medication refill needed. Ten dollars. That’s all I needed. Ten measly dollars to keep my heart beating regularly for another month.
“Damon,” I called softly, not wanting to wake the children. It was barely seven in the morning, but I knew my son would be up getting ready for his job at the insurance company. “Could I speak with you for a moment?”
He emerged from the hallway, already dressed in his pressed shirt and tie, phone glued to his ear as usual. Without looking at me, he held up one finger—the universal sign for wait one. I’d been waiting for his attention for three years now, ever since I moved into this house after my small apartment became too expensive on my eight-hundred-dollar monthly pension.
“Yeah, Dave, I’ll get those numbers to you by noon,” he said into the phone, finally meeting my eyes with an expression of mild annoyance. “What is it, Mom?”
I held up the empty bottle, my voice barely above a whisper. “I need to refill my heart medication. It’s ten dollars. I’m sorry to ask, but my pension doesn’t come until next week, and I used the last of my savings for groceries yesterday.”
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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