I was heading upstairs when I heard my name.
“I honestly don’t know how much longer I can stand having her here,” Meadow complained. “She walks around like a ghost.”
One woman asked, “Why don’t you put her in a nursing home?”
Meadow laughed.
“I’ve looked into it. Blaine gets sentimental.”
Then her voice dropped.
“Besides, we’re waiting to see what inheritance she leaves. Blaine thinks she might have some savings or maybe life insurance. It would be stupid to move her out before we know.”
Someone asked how long they might have to wait.
“She’s seventy,” Meadow sighed. “But unfortunately she’s healthier than she looks. She could live another ten years.”
My legs nearly gave out.
They weren’t simply annoyed by me.
They were waiting for me to die.
That night, Meadow criticized the chicken I had cooked.
“This is a little dry.”
It wasn’t.
Then Blaine casually informed me that they were repainting the house and I would need to move into the basement temporarily.
“You can sleep on the couch,” Meadow added.
The old basement sofa had a broken spring.
I smiled.
“Of course.”
But inside, something had changed.
