They figured I was just a frail old lady, half-gone already. But when I overheard my own kids plannin’ my headstone like it was a done deal, I knew it was time to prove kindness don’t mean weakness. Life’s a bumpy ride, let me tell ya.
I’ve been kickin’ for 74 years and some change, and I’ve seen plenty of highs and lows. One day, everything’s smooth sailin’, and the next, somethin’ comes along and knocks the wind outta you. But you gotta keep pushin’.
You gotta go with the flow. That’s what life’s all about. No matter how many years you got under your belt, there’s always somethin’ to fret over, somethin’ that keeps you movin’ forward.
My name’s Verna, and I poured most of my life into raisin’ my three kids. Thalia’s my oldest, Gideon’s the middle one, and Zora’s my baby girl. Lord knows I gave ‘em my all.
Every birthday, every Christmas, every scraped knee or bruise, I was there with a hug and a warm smile. Their daddy and I worked ourselves ragged to give ‘em chances we never had. We weren’t swimmin’ in cash, but we got all three through college.
I can still see ‘em walkin’ across that stage. Me in the crowd, dabbin’ my eyes with a tissue, heart near burstin’ with pride. But as they grew, got hitched, and started their own families, they drifted away.
Daily calls turned to weekly, then monthly. Sunday suppers at my house fizzled out to just holiday pop-ins. When my grandkids came along—seven of ‘em, if you can believe it—they got even busier.
“Ma, we got soccer practice,” Thalia would say. “Ma, Gideon Jr.’s got a recital,” Gideon would chime in. “Ma, work’s just wild right now,” Zora would sigh.
I understood. I really did. Life keeps movin’, and young folks got their own roads to travel.
Then the great-grandkids started arrivin’—three little darlin’s I barely know. When my Orson passed six years back, things took a turn. For two years, I tried to keep things together alone in that big, empty house we’d shared for near fifty years.
But after my second tumble, when I was stuck on the kitchen floor for hours ‘til a neighbor found me, my kids decided a nursin’ home was the answer. “It’s for your own good, Ma,” they all agreed. “You’ll have folks to look after you.”
What they meant was they didn’t have time to look after me themselves.
I’ve been in this nursin’ home for four years now. When I first arrived, I was scared stiff. My room was a shoebox compared to the house I left behind.
Those first few months, I cried myself to sleep most nights. But things got brighter. I met Sybil from down the hall, who showed me how to play bridge.
Then there was Freya, who shared my love for murder mysteries, and Tilda, who’d sneak in homemade cookies when her daughter visited. We became our own little crew, all of us left behind in one way or another by the kids we raised. My kids and their families?
They barely showed up. Less than five visits in four years, if you can believe it. Sometimes they’d call for birthdays or holidays, but more often it was just a card in the mail.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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