Sixteen years ago, my life altered unexpectedly. At 56, I was constantly moving between little rentals when my son Mark achieved a goal I never could. Although he was only 29, he worked hard to buy a little one-story house for his young family. He lived there with Melissa and Emma, their daughter.
Mark was a construction worker with calloused hands and forward thinking. Over coffee in his new kitchen, he said, “Mom, I’ll add more rooms, build a porch, and maybe even put up a swing set in the yard.” I’ll build you a garage-top room.
It was one of my best days. In his basic will, Emma would get the house if he died. He wanted his child to always be safe. But fate is cruel. Mark died in a terrible workplace accident before their dreams could come true. Emma was two.
I held Emma’s hand and tried to remain calm at his burial, but Melissa was cold and aloof. I found her packing her bag when I got home. At 27, she was bored and wanted more than motherhood. She said, “Take care of her,” as she handed me the house keys. She then went in a luxurious car with another man, leaving her daughter without looking back.