I had just come back from the grocery store when my son said the words that split my life in two. He didn’t shout, didn’t even look angry, and that’s what made it worse. “Mom,” he said, standing by the kitchen counter.
“I’m tired of seeing you every day.”
At first, I thought he was joking. Michael had always teased me gently—little things like my habit of humming while I cooked or my endless questions about his day. But this time, his face was flat, cold.
I could hear the hum of the refrigerator louder than his voice, and for a moment, I didn’t understand what he meant. “Tired of seeing me,” I repeated, half laughing. “Michael, what do you mean?”
Emily walked in behind him, leaning on the doorframe with her arms crossed.
That’s when I understood this conversation wasn’t spontaneous. It had been rehearsed—maybe even planned over dinner when I wasn’t there. She had that polished calm she always wore when something unpleasant was about to happen.
Michael looked away. “Emily and I need space,” he said. “It’s just too much having you here all the time.”
I stood still, holding the grocery bag so tightly the paper tore a little at the top.
A tomato rolled out and stopped near Emily’s shoe. She didn’t move to pick it up. I had bought that house twenty years ago.
Every brick, every window, every inch of paint had come from my savings, my late husband’s pension, and the years I spent working double shifts at the diner. When Michael got married, I offered the master bedroom to him and Emily, telling them, “You two need comfort more than I do.” I moved into the smallest room, a little corner by the backyard. I thought it was love.
Now he was asking me to leave. “I don’t understand,” I said quietly, my voice trembling even though I tried to sound calm. “Did I do something wrong?
Did I offend you somehow?”
Emily sighed, brushing imaginary dust from her blouse. “It’s not about wrong or right, Olivia,” she said. “We’re just trying to start our own life.
You’re always around, and it’s hard for us to feel independent.”
Independent. I wanted to laugh. I paid every bill—the mortgage, the electricity, the taxes—all in my name.
When the washing machine broke, I fixed it. When Emily needed money for her design course, I wrote the check. Independence.
They were living inside my generosity and calling it freedom. I nodded slowly, feeling heat crawl up my neck. My hands were shaking as I unpacked the groceries one by one just to have something to do—apples, milk, bread—the small routines that used to make me feel useful.
Michael cleared his throat. “We think it would be best if you found your own place somewhere peaceful. You deserve that.”
He said it like he was doing me a favor.
Peaceful. I wanted to tell him peace doesn’t come from silence; it comes from love. But the word stuck in my throat.
“I see,” I said instead. “You’re tired of seeing me.”
He nodded, relieved that I wasn’t yelling. Emily gave a small, polite smile—the kind people give when they think a conversation is over.
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