I never imagined that at sixty-seven, I’d find myself curled on a shelter cot, listening to strangers breathe in the dark. Yet those three days changed everything between my son, Daniel, and me.
It began after my hip replacement. The surgeon had been clear: six weeks minimum of help, even with simple tasks like dressing or climbing stairs. When Daniel came to take me home, he didn’t ask.
“Mom, you’re staying with us,” he said firmly, helping me into the car. “Guest room’s ready. Fresh sheets, pillows—the works.”
“I don’t want to be a burden,” I whispered.
“You raised me alone after Dad died. Let me return the favor,” he said, squeezing my hand.
Daniel’s home was spotless and perfect on the surface. Claire, his wife, had transformed the guest room into a miniature hotel—flowers, books, soft light everywhere. But beneath the perfection, I sensed tension: clipped smiles, careful sighs, the quiet “of course” that sounded more like a door shutting. I tried to ignore it.
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