The second she noticed the diaper bag hanging off one shoulder and the exhaustion written all over my face, she hurried toward me. She didn’t ask a single question.
She wrapped one arm around me as carefully as she could without bumping my incision. “Oh, sweetheart.”
That was all. There was no lecture and no “I warned you”—just those two words.
Sometimes that’s enough to keep a person standing. Mom’s little ranch house hadn’t changed much since Dad passed away.
The same wind spinner turned lazily in the backyard. The same faded blue recliner sat beside the living room window where Dad used to read the Sunday paper.
Now it was covered with folded baby blankets. She’d been preparing for Emma’s first visit for weeks.
Neither of us imagined it would become our new home. That first week blurred together.
I fed Emma, changed diapers, took pain medication, and tried not to cry where Mom could see me. Then I slept for 45 minutes and repeated the cycle.
One afternoon, I caught Mom sitting at the kitchen table with a yellow legal pad. She was adding numbers with an old calculator.
When she noticed me, she quietly turned the paper over. “What are you doing?”
“Oh, nothing.” I smiled weakly.
“You’ve never been good at pretending.” She sighed.
“I was figuring out how long my Social Security check could cover groceries for three people.” That broke me more than losing the house.
My mother had worked 38 years as an elementary school secretary. She deserved a peaceful retirement.
Instead, at 69, she was wondering how to stretch canned soup and frozen vegetables because her daughter had nowhere else to go. “I’ll go back to work.”
She looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “You can barely climb the porch steps.”
“I’ll figure something out.” “You just had major surgery.”
“I know.” “You have a newborn.”
“I know.” She reached across the table and squeezed my hand.
“For once in your life, Natalie, let someone else carry you for a little while.” I wanted to.
I just didn’t know how. A few days later, I met Rebecca Keller.
Mom’s church friend had recommended her. Rebecca’s office overlooked Monument Circle in downtown Indianapolis.
She looked exactly how you’d expect a lawyer with 40 years of experience to look. She had a gray bob, comfortable shoes, and sharp eyes.
