After my husband’s death, I often go to bed hungry.

I only make hearty meals on holidays when my son visits me. This year, he got married. It was during the Christmas holidays, and I was so excited to celebrate with him and his wife. I cooked them dinner, and his wife suddenly came up to me and shocked me with words that will always haunt me. She said, “Mrs. Thompson, I think it’s time you moved into a nursing home.” I was stunned. My heart ached, and I felt a lump in my throat. “Why would you say that, dear?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. “You see,” she continued, “my husband and I want to start a family soon, and we think it’s best if you have proper care. We can’t provide that while we’re both working.” Tears welled up in my eyes. “But I thought we could be a family here, together. I thought you enjoyed my cooking, and we could share more moments like this,” I replied, my voice breaking. Her expression softened a bit, but she remained firm. “It’s not that we don’t appreciate what you’ve done. It’s just… we have plans and a vision for our future that doesn’t include living with a parent.” My son entered the room, sensing the tension. “What’s going on here?” he asked. “Your wife thinks I should move into a nursing home,” I said, looking at him with hope that he would defend me. He looked uncomfortable and avoided my gaze. “Mom, we’ve talked about this. We think it might be the best option.” I couldn’t believe my ears. My son, my own flesh and blood, was agreeing with her. “I’ve given everything for you,” I said, my voice trembling. “I’ve gone to bed hungry so you could have more. I’ve waited for your visits like a lifeline. And now you’re throwing me away?”