As I added my medications and a few personal items, I could hear Richard downstairs on the phone, probably calling friends to brag about his lottery win. His laughter echoed through the house, sharp and foreign.
The taxi honked outside exactly 10 minutes later. I dragged my suitcase down the stairs, my arthritic hands struggling with the weight. Richard was nowhere to be seen when I reached the front door.
Standing on the porch of the home where I’d spent 15 years, I turned back one last time. Through the kitchen window, I could see Richard counting money, my money, at the same table where I’d once helped him learn to read.
The taxi driver, a middle-aged man with kind eyes, got out to help me with my suitcase. “You okay, ma’am? You look upset.”Browse Reference
I wanted to tell him that my son had just destroyed my world. I wanted to explain that I had nowhere to go and no one who cared whether I lived or died. Instead, I just nodded and climbed into the back seat.
