When my son passed away, my daughter-in-law looked me straight in the eye and said, “Don’t be dramatic. Pack your bags and learn to survive.”
A week later, I was sleeping in the back seat of my aging sedan in a parking lot off the interstate outside Columbus, Ohio, living on crackers and cheap coffee, convinced life couldn’t possibly get worse. That was before my son’s attorney called me with news that would change everything.
I’m glad to have you here with me. Follow my story until the end, and if it reaches you somewhere far from our quiet Midwestern cul-de-sac, tell me in the comments which city you’re reading from—I like to imagine these words traveling farther than I ever have. I never imagined that losing my son would be the second worst thing to happen to me that week.
Carlton had been gone for exactly seven days when Cleo walked into the living room where I sat folding his old sweaters, tears falling silently onto the soft wool. The funeral flowers were still fresh in their vases, their heavy sweetness mixing with the scent of his cologne that still clung to his clothes. “Naen, we need to talk,” she said, her voice sharper than I’d ever heard it.
Not the gentle, sympathetic tone she’d used at the funeral when people were watching. I looked up, expecting maybe a conversation about the children, or arrangements for Carlton’s belongings. My daughter-in-law stood in the doorway of the suburban Ohio living room wearing designer jeans and a silk blouse that probably cost more than my monthly Social Security check.
Her perfectly manicured nails drummed against the doorframe. “Of course, honey,” I said quietly. “What is it?”
Cleo stepped into the room, but she didn’t sit down.
She remained standing, towering over me as I sat curled in Carlton’s favorite armchair—the one he’d insisted on keeping even though it clashed horribly with her modern décor. “I’ve been thinking about the house situation,” she began. Something cold settled in my stomach.
“With Carlton gone, things need to change. The kids and I need space to grieve properly. And honestly, having you here is just too much right now.”
I blinked, trying to process her words.
“Too much?” I repeated. “You’re always crying, always touching his things, always talking about him like he’s still here. It’s not healthy for the children to see their grandmother falling apart like this.” Her voice was steady, almost clinical.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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