I watched him sit in his car for several minutes talking on his phone, probably to Nola, getting his story straight.
When he finally came inside, I was shocked by how tired he looked.
His hair was disheveled, his clothes wrinkled. The confident man who’d evicted me from my own home looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
“Hi, Mom,” he said, sliding into the booth across from me.
“Hello, Randall.”
For a moment, we just looked at each other.
This was my son, the baby I’d nursed through fevers and nightmares, the boy I’d cheered for at little league games, the young man I’d been so proud of when he graduated college.
When had he become this stranger?
Mom, I’m sorry, he said finally. I know this whole thing has been hard on you.
Hard on me?
I kept my voice level.
Randall, you took my house. You took my belongings. You told everyone I was happy to be in a nursing home when you knew I was miserable.
I thought it was for the best.
No, you thought it was convenient. There’s a difference.
He ran his hands through his hair.
You don’t understand the pressure I’m under. Nola’s been talking about leaving me if we don’t get our financial situation figured out. My job is hanging by a thread.
The house was just sitting there empty while you were in Florida.
It wasn’t empty. It was waiting for me to come home.
But you were gone for 2 months. How was I supposed to know you were coming back?
I stared at him.
Because I told you I was helping Eleanor recover from surgery. Because I called you every week. Because that’s what temporary means.
Randall shifted uncomfortably.
Look, maybe I made some mistakes, but we can fix this. You can move back in. We’ll make room.
Make room in my own house.
The renters have lease agreements. We can’t just kick them out. But there’s the guest room.
The guest room in my own house.
It would just be temporary until we figure something else out.
I felt something cold settle in my chest.
Even now, even after being caught, he still thought I would accept being a guest in my own home.
Randall, I said softly. Do you love me?
The question seemed to surprise him.
Of course, I love you, Mom. You’re my mother.
Then why did you hurt me so badly?
He was quiet for a long time.
I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just I needed the house.
And there it was.
The truth.
Simple and devastating.
He needed the house more than he needed me to be happy.
I stood up, leaving a $5 bill on the table for my coffee.
30 days, Randall. That’s what the legal notice says.
Mom, wait.
But I was already walking away.
Some bridges, once burned, can’t be rebuilt.
As I reached the door, I heard him call out one last time.
Mom, please. I’m begging you.
But it was too late for begging.
It was time for consequences.