Saying it out loud still makes my chest tighten, but at the time, I convinced myself it was practical. The house had been left to me when my father passed. My three kids were growing fast, sharing rooms, arguing over space. Money was tight. Life was loud.
My mom had lived in that house for over forty years. She cooked every meal there. She cried there when my dad died. She watered her plants every morning on the porch like it was a ritual.
When I told her we needed the house, I expected tears. Anger. At least questions.
She didn’t argue.
She just smiled softly and said,
“I’ll only take my plant with me.”
It was an old, ordinary plant in a ceramic pot. Nothing special. I didn’t think much of it.
