My family left me to eat alone on my 75th birthday, using my money to vacation in Europe. So I sold the house while they were gone and moved next door to watch their faces when they came back…

Andre looked annoyed, now tensive. Mama, it was just one birthday. You’ve had 74 of them.

My hands trembled. I gripped the edge of the table. One birthday.

I said it was the first birthday I’ve had without your father, and I thought, maybe just maybe you wanted to spend it with me, not run from me. He groaned and dropped into the chair like he was exhausted. You’re being dramatic.

I blinked, stunned. Dramatic? Yes, he snapped. It’s not like we left you with nothing.

You had food. You always say you don’t need much. Why is this suddenly some big crisis? I stepped back.

My heart was pounding in my chest. I thought about how I used to hold him when he had fevers, how I skipped meals so he could eat, how I pawned my wedding ring once to pay for his braces, how I prayed every night for his safety when he was out too late. I thought about how he used to fall asleep on my lap during thunderstorms and call me his favorite person in the world.

And now here he was telling me I had enough, telling me my pain was too much trouble. I sat down across from him, staring right into the eyes of the man I raised. I’m your mother, Andre, not your wallet.

He didn’t say anything. I didn’t cry this time, not in front of him. I just stood up again and walked over to the pantry to grab the broom.

You can go, I said softly. He looked up, surprised. Mama, I need to sweep, I said.

And I don’t like sweeping around things that don’t belong in my house. He stood slowly, and for a second he looked like he wanted to say something. But nothing came out.

He left without another word. That night, I sat on the porch under the string lights herald, and I hung up years ago. I rocked back and forth in my chair with a blanket around my shoulders.

I didn’t cry, but I didn’t smile either. I just let the cool air touch my face and listened to the crickets sing me a little mercy. I still loved my son, but I couldn’t unsee what I saw.

And I couldn’t unfeel what I felt. I thought that was the end of it, that maybe we’d talk again later and smooth it out like mothers always do. But something was coming that would make me see everything clearer.

And this time, I wouldn’t look away. I didn’t go looking for trouble. I just needed a little help.

A few weeks after the argument with Andre, things were tight, tighter than usual. I was running low on groceries, and the power bill had come in higher than I expected. I didn’t panic.

I’d been through worse. I just figured I’d borrow a little until my check came in. Tyrell, bless his heart, had told me about a retired judge who volunteered at the community center, Nora Blake.

Said she helped older women get access to legal advice and support. She’s sharp, Miss D., he said. Doesn’t play games.

You’ll like her. I didn’t want to bother nobody, but I called. She came over the next afternoon.

Tall woman, silver gray, twist-out sharp eyes, and a no-nonsense voice that still had kindness in it. She walked in wearing slacks and flat shoes, carrying a canvas tote filled with folders. Miss Wynn, she said, shaking my hand firmly.

You needed some assistance, just a little guidance, I replied, motioning for her to sit. I may need to borrow a few dollars just to tide me over. I’m not behind or anything, just a bad month.

She gave me a careful look. Do you mind if I ask, don’t you have a retirement account? Any savings? I nodded. I did.

I mean, I do. But my son’s been helping me manage it. She set her tote down.

And how involved are you with that management? I hesitated. He’s got the lock-in. He pays the bills.

Said he’d handle all the boring stuff so I didn’t have to worry. Nora leaned forward. Would you mind pulling up your online banking, just so we can take a quick look? Make sure everything’s where it should be…