Did anyone ever ask what it felt like to only be needed when someone had to count the medications, change the sheets, or warm up the soup?
No.
They only saw what I did.
Not what years of loneliness had done to me.
“Don’t judge me,” I said in a broken voice. “You are all young. You still have time. There are still people who will hold your hand, look into your eyes, and make you feel alive. What did I have?”
Michael’s eyes filled with tears.
“We were there for you,” he said.
I almost laughed.
We.
A sick husband. A busy son. A daughter-in-law who watched me as if I were a stain on her perfect little family. A grandchild I was supposed to kiss, feed, and care for while pretending I no longer had a body, desires, or a heart.
“I gave you my whole life,” I told him. “I raised you. I protected you. I stayed beside your father when other women would have already left. And now, just because I wanted something for myself too, you all look at me as if I’m a monster?”
Michael did not yell.
That was the worst part.
