It started with a broken phone.
That crisp autumn morning, I stepped outside into the cool air, inhaling the familiar scent of fresh bread wafting from the bakery down the street. My mother, Helen, had already begun making breakfast, and like every other day, I was on my way to pick up our morning rolls.
It was a ritual, just like our lives—simple, predictable, steady.
I know what you’re thinking. Why does a successful 30-year-old man still live with his mother?
Because she’s all I’ve ever had.
My father walked away the moment he learned my mother was pregnant. He never looked back. It had always been just the two of us, and after everything she had sacrificed to raise me, how could I ever leave her to be lonely?
Continue reading on the next page…