and babysat whenever someone called.
I had spent almost my entire adult life taking care of other people.
After my husband, Robert, died twelve years ago, I became even more useful.
That sounds bitter. Maybe it is a little.
My children weren’t terrible people, but somewhere along the way, they became used to me always being available.
If Karen needed someone to watch her boys, she called.
If David was short on rent, he called.
That sounds bitter.
If Melissa needed help setting up a birthday party, she called.
If Eric needed a ride from the airport, somehow I was always the first option.
But weeks could pass without anyone calling just to ask how I was. My children rarely helped me.
I told myself that it was normal.
Families were busy.
I was always the first option.
After my husband died, I struggled for years to feel like myself
