We had been married for forty-six years. I didn’t know how to exist without him. Our lives had been so intertwined that I had forgotten how to stand alone.
After the funeral, my son Daniel stood in my kitchen in Santa Fe, looking uneasy as he said, “Mom, you can’t stay here by yourself. Come live with us so we can keep an eye on you.”
I looked around the house filled with memories and said yes—without asking the questions I should have asked.
Daniel lived in Dallas, in a large four-bedroom house with a pool and a wide driveway. His wife, Rebecca, had decorated it in what she proudly called “modern farmhouse”—white walls, expensive décor, everything beautiful… and somehow empty.
They gave me the guest room at the end of the hall. I was told, politely but clearly, not to change anything inside it. Everything had already been “designed.”
At first, I told myself adjustment would take time. Rebecca had her real estate business, Daniel worked long hours, and the children barely noticed me unless they needed something.
So I made myself useful.
I cooked. Cleaned. Helped with homework. Watched the kids. Did whatever I could.