I never thought I'd be the kind of mother who'd rewrite her will out of spite. But then again, I never thought my children would be the kind who'd let me lie alone in a hospital bed for two weeks without so much as sending flowers.
The monitor beside me beeped in steady rhythm, marking time in a room that felt frozen. Outside, spring had arrived in Oakridge, painting the world in shades of renewal. But from my window on the third floor of Memorial Hospital, all I could see were the shadows of what my life had become.
"Mrs. Wilson, your vitals are looking good today," Nurse Kim said, adjusting my IV. "Any visitors coming?"
I smiled politely, the lie forming easily on my lips. "Yes, my son Michael mentioned he might stop by after work."
The kindness in her eyes betrayed that she knew the truth. For sixteen days, the only names in my visitor log had been medical staff. The chair beside my bed remained empty, collecting nothing but the weight of my disappointment.
As she left, I reached for my phone—another day, another attempt. The rings echoed hollow before my eldest son's voicemail greeted me. "You've reached Michael Wilson, CEO of Wilson Development. I'm unavailable at the moment..."
I hung up without leaving a message. What was there to say that I hadn't already said in the dozen messages before?
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The truth is, I'd spent sixty-eight years believing family meant something different than what it apparently meant to my children. I thought it meant showing up, being present, sacrificing. I'd built my entire life around that belief.
I was Eleanor Wilson—Ellie to those who knew me before I became "Mom" or "Mrs. Wilson" or "Grandma." I'd taught high school English for thirty-seven years in Oakridge, a place where generations of families put down roots beneath towering Douglas firs. My students still recognized me in the grocery store, often with genuine smiles that warmed something in me. "Mrs. Wilson! You were my favorite teacher!" they'd say, and I'd remember why I'd chosen that path.
I purchased my craftsman house on Maple Street when property values were still reasonable, back when my husband James was alive and we still believed our future held more than just photographs in albums. After James passed from a sudden heart attack fifteen years ago, that house became my sanctuary—especially the garden where I coaxed life from soil with the same patience I'd once used to nurture three children.
All three of my children had done well for themselves. Michael, my oldest at forty-eight, had built a successful real estate development company. Becky, forty-five, was a marketing executive for a major corporation in Seattle. And Daniel, my youngest at forty-two, had made a fortune in tech startups before semi-retiring to pursue his passion for sailing. They were smart, driven, successful—everything a parent hopes for their children.
Or so I thought.
"Mom, we're just so busy right now," became their mantra. Phone calls grew shorter, visits more infrequent. Holidays were spent negotiating whose turn it was to host me, like I was a burden to be passed around.
Last Christmas, I sat at Michael's gleaming dining table, watching my grandchildren—Ashley, sixteen; Tyler, fourteen; and Emma, twelve—absorbed in their phones. Jennifer, Michael's wife, served a catered dinner while discussing their upcoming vacation to the Maldives.
"You should come visit sometime, Mom," Michael said, not looking up from cutting his roast. "When things slow down."
"That would be lovely," I replied, knowing it would never happen.
The pattern was similar with Becky and Thomas, who lived in a trendy Seattle high-rise. They'd invite me for precisely timed brunches where Becky would check her watch every few minutes. Daniel, perpetually traveling, would send expensive gifts with cards signed by his assistant.
I never complained. I smiled and nodded and told them I understood. After all, isn't that what mothers do? We understand, we forgive, we make excuses.
When my birthday arrived in February, I received a floral arrangement from Michael and Jennifer with a card I'm certain Jennifer selected. Becky sent a text at
9:47 PM. Daniel forgot altogether.
I marked the occasion alone, with a small cake from the local bakery and a glass of wine in my garden, thinking about how I'd once held these same children as they took their first breaths, their first steps, spoke their first words. How I'd sat through countless recitals and games and award ceremonies. How I'd helped pay for their educations, their first cars, their wedding expenses.
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