I Politely Asked My Daughter-in-Law Not to Smoke — My Son Slapped Me, But 15 Minutes Later
Pulled out the coffee cans. Counted the money. Seventeen thousand dollars. Seventeen years of sacrifice.
Of skipped meals. Of worn-out shoes. Of winters without heat because I’d rather save the money. I paid for his college.
All four years. Tuition. Books. Housing.
Everything. Deacon graduated with a degree in finance. Got a job at a big firm in Columbus. Started wearing suits.
Driving a nice car. Dating women with college degrees and perfect teeth. He met Sloan at a pharmaceutical conference. She sold medical devices to hospitals.
Made six figures. Drove a BMW. Had an apartment downtown with a view. They got married two years later.
I wore a dress from Goodwill. Sat in the third row. Smiled for pictures. They bought a house in the suburbs.
Three-car garage. Granite countertops. A lawn that someone else mowed. They visited me twice a year.
Christmas. My birthday. Like clockwork. Like obligation.
I told myself it was enough. He was busy. Important. Successful.
I’d done my job. Raised him right. Gave him a future. Then came the doctor’s appointment that changed everything.
The cough started six months before I called Deacon for help. Just a small thing at first. A tickle in my throat. Then it got worse.
Deeper. Wet. I’d cough until I couldn’t breathe. Until black spots danced in my vision.
Until I thought I might die right there on my apartment floor. The doctor was young. Too young. She had kind eyes though.
Sad eyes. «Emphysema,» she said. The word hung in the air between us like smoke. «Your lungs are deteriorating. The tissue is damaged beyond repair.»
«But I never smoked,» I said. My voice sounded small. Confused. «Secondhand smoke. Environmental exposure.»
«You said you worked in a textile factory for thirty years,» she said. I nodded. «The cotton fibers. The chemicals. The cigarette smoke from other workers. Your lungs have been under assault for decades.»
She talked about treatments. Inhalers. Breathing exercises. Oxygen tanks eventually.
She used words like chronic and progressive. She didn’t use the word curable. The treatments were expensive. My insurance covered some. Not enough.
My savings were gone. Used up. Given to Deacon for his education. For his future.
I couldn’t work anymore. The factory let me go. Disability checks started coming. Eleven hundred dollars a month.
My rent was seven hundred. Utilities another hundred and fifty. Medicine another two hundred. The math didn’t work.
The numbers didn’t add up. I tried. God, I tried. I ate one meal a day.
Skipped medications sometimes. Sat in the dark to save electricity. Wore sweaters in winter instead of turning on the heat. But my landlord wanted his money.
The utility company didn’t care about my lungs. The pharmacy wouldn’t fill prescriptions without payment. I lasted three months. Then I called Deacon.
The phone felt heavy in my hand. Shame burned in my chest hotter than any cough. «I need help,» I said. Silence on the other end.
Long enough that I thought he’d hung up. «What kind of help?» His voice was careful. Guarded. «I can’t afford my apartment anymore. The doctor says I need treatments.»
«I was wondering…» I couldn’t finish. Couldn’t force the words out. «You want to move in with us?»
Not a question. A statement. Flat. Heavy.
«Just temporarily. Until I figure something out.» More silence. «Let me talk to Sloan.»
He called back three hours later. «Okay. You can stay in the guest room.» Relief flooded through me.
«Thank you. Thank you so much. I’ll pay rent. I’ll help around the house.»
«I won’t be any trouble.» «We’ll talk about the details when you get here,» he said. He hung up before I could say I love you.
I moved in on a Saturday in May. Everything I owned fit in two suitcases and three cardboard boxes. Deacon didn’t help me pack. Didn’t come to my apartment.
Just gave me the address and said to be there by noon. The house was beautiful. Magazine beautiful. The kind of house I used to walk past and dream about when Deacon was little.
White siding. Black shutters. A front porch with rocking chairs that looked like they’d never been sat in. Sloan answered the door.
She wore white jeans and a silk blouse. Her makeup was perfect. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. «Loretta. Come in.»
She stepped aside. Didn’t offer to help with my suitcases. The inside was even more impressive. Hardwood floors.
High ceilings. Everything white and grey and spotless. Like a museum. Like a place where people didn’t actually live.
«The guest room is upstairs. Second door on the right,» Sloan gestured toward the staircase. «Deacon’s at the office. He’ll be home around six.»
I dragged my suitcases up the stairs. My lungs burned. My legs trembled. I had to stop twice to catch my breath.
The guest room was decorated in whites and greys. A queen bed with too many pillows. A dresser. A nightstand.
A single window that looked out over the backyard. Everything matched. Everything coordinated. Nothing felt warm.
I unpacked my suitcases. My clothes looked shabby in the expensive dresser. Worn. Faded. Poor.
Sloan appeared in the doorway. She leaned against the frame. Arms crossed. «We need to go over some house rules,» she said.
I turned to face her. «Of course.» «The main bathroom downstairs is ours. You can use the half bath by the laundry room.»
«Don’t come downstairs before nine on weekends. We like our privacy. Don’t touch the thermostat. And we’ll need four hundred dollars a month for household expenses.»
Four hundred dollars. More than a third of my disability check. «That seems like a lot,» I said carefully. Her smile went sharp.
«You’re using our water. Our electricity. Our space. Four hundred is more than fair.»
What could I say? I had nowhere else to go. «Okay.» «Great. First payment is due Monday.»
She pushed off the doorframe. «Oh. And try to keep your medical equipment in your room. The nebulizer and stuff. It’s depressing to look at.»
She walked away. Her footsteps echoed down the hallway. I sat on the edge of the bed. The photograph of Deacon at graduation sat on the nightstand.
I’d placed it there first thing. Before my clothes. Before my medications. That boy in the picture looked so happy.
So proud. So loved. I didn’t recognize him anymore. The first month in their house, I tried to make myself useful.
I cooked dinner three nights a week. Cleaned the bathrooms. Did laundry. Vacuumed the spotless floors.
Sloan complained about everything. The food was too salty. Too bland. Too ethnic.
I used the wrong cleaning products. Left streaks on the mirrors. Folded the towels wrong. I started doing less.
Staying in my room more. Making myself invisible. Deacon came home every night at 6:30. He’d kiss Sloan.
Pour bourbon. Disappear into his office. Sometimes I’d try to talk to him. Tell him about my day.
About the book I was reading. About the cardinals I watched from my window. «That’s nice, Mom,» he’d say. His eyes never left his phone.
His voice carried no interest. No warmth. No love. I stopped trying.
Sloan got worse. She’d wrinkle her nose when I entered a room. Make comments about old people’s smells. About feeling cramped in her own house.
About how they never used to have to worry about someone overhearing their private conversations. I started showering twice a day. Three times some days. Washing my clothes constantly.
Using so much soap my hands cracked and bled. My water bill, which I paid them for, went up. Sloan complained about that too. They went out often.
Fancy restaurants. Wine tastings. Weekend trips to Chicago. New York. Miami.
I stayed home. Ate microwave dinners alone in my room. Tried not to exist too loudly. I had physical therapy appointments twice a week.
Exercises to keep my lungs working. To keep me mobile. To keep me alive a little longer. The first time I asked Deacon for a ride, he sighed.
Long and heavy. Like I’d asked him to donate a kidney. «I have meetings all day, Mom.» «It’s just twenty minutes there and back. The appointment is at two.»
«Fine. But you need to be ready at 1:30 exactly. I can’t be late.» He drove me in silence.
The radio played soft jazz. His jaw was tight. His hands gripped the steering wheel like he was angry at it. At the physical therapy office, he stayed in the car.
Kept the engine running. When I came out forty-five minutes later, sweating and exhausted, he didn’t ask how it went. The next appointment, he texted at the last minute. «Can’t make it. Take an Uber.»
