I waited 19 minutes at that bus stop.
I’d raised Joel alone for six years before marrying Peter, the man he now called Dad.
And somehow, I’d raised a son who couldn’t offer his mother dinner.
During that long journey home, I made a decision.
I wouldn’t stop loving him.
But I would stop making it so easy for him to forget I mattered.
On Thursday, he called.
“Mom, are you free Saturday? Same as last time?”
I already knew my answer.
“Of course. What time do you want me?”
“Five.”
“That’s fine, Joel. But I need a favor from you on Sunday.”
Silence.
“What kind of favor?”
“I need you to help clear the spare room. Peter’s sister arrives in two weeks. Three hours, perhaps four.”
“Sunday?”
“Yes.”
He sighed.
“All right, Mom. After lunch.”
I thanked him.
Then I looked at the notebook beside my teacup.
