Part 3: The Reckoning
The next morning, I called Scott.
He answered on the second ring.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Mom is at my house.”
There was a pause.
“She left?”
“Yes. She left. In the rain. In her slippers. With two grocery bags full of clothes.”
“That’s ridiculous. She’s overreacting.”
“She’s overreacting? She told me what Megan said to her. She told me what you let happen.”
“That’s not—”
“Don’t. Don’t lie to me. You asked Mom to move in with you. You told her it would be easy. You told her she could come and go as she pleased. And then you turned her into a maid.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Then what was it like, Scott? Because from where I’m standing, you took advantage of our mother. You made her feel worthless in your home. You let your wife treat her like garbage.”
He was silent.
“She’s not going back,” I said.
“She can’t just—”
“She can. And she will. She’s staying with me. And if you want to see her again, you’re going to have to do some serious apologizing.”
“You can’t keep her from me.”
“I’m not keeping her from you. She doesn’t want to see you. There’s a difference.”
I hung up.
Mom stayed with me for three months.
We fixed up my spare room. We bought her new clothes. We went to lunch together. We talked for hours.
She told me about her life. Her dreams. Her regrets. She told me about the years she spent taking care of Dad. The years she spent taking care of us. The years she spent putting everyone else before herself.
“You deserve to be happy,” I told her.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
She smiled.
“I’m learning.”
Eventually, Mom decided to move back to her own house.
She said she missed her garden. She missed her neighbors. She missed her own bed.
But she also said something else.
“I’m not going to let anyone treat me like that again. Not Scott. Not Megan. Not anyone.”
I hugged her.
“I’m proud of you.”
“I’m proud of me too.”
Scott apologized.
It took him two months. But he finally showed up at Mom’s house with flowers and tears and a long list of things he was sorry for.
Mom listened.
She didn’t forgive him right away. But she didn’t close the door either.
They’re rebuilding. Slowly. Carefully.
And every Sunday, Mom comes to my house for dinner.
We sit on the porch. We watch the sunset. We talk about everything and nothing.
She’s wearing real shoes now.
And she’s smiling.
The End
