I sat rigid, gripping my napkin under the table so tightly my nails dug into my palm. Percy coughed—clearly embarrassed—but said nothing. Not one word to defend me.
“Kids, that’s not how you speak to Grandma,” Tabitha offered, weakly, like it was a formality she didn’t believe in.
“I… I have to go.” I stood up, legs unsteady. “Thank you for dinner.”
“But we haven’t even had dessert,” Tabitha said, pretending surprise.
“I’m on a diet,” I lied. “Doctor’s orders.”
Percy asked, “Need a ride?” And I saw it—hope in his eyes that I’d refuse.
“No. I’ll get a cab.”
Rosie snorted. “At your age you should learn to use a ride-share app. Would save a lot of money.”
Money. It always circled back to money—the down payment for Percy’s house, Rosie’s wedding, the kids’ private school. Always what I gave. Never what I needed.
“I’ll be fine,” I said, shrugging on my coat.
“Call me when you get home,” Rosie added without looking away from the TV.
I knew she wouldn’t answer if I did.
Outside, the May air was cold against my skin. Elk Grove lay quiet, windows glowing yellow like fireflies. I’d lived here my whole life, knew every street by heart—yet I felt like a stranger in my own town.
The cab arrived twelve minutes later.
The driver, a young man with long hair in a ponytail, smiled at me in the mirror. “Where to, ma’am?”
“34 Oak Street,” I said, sinking back into the seat.
“Rough day?” he asked gently.
“It’s a hard life,” I admitted, then regretted it.
But he only nodded like he understood. “It happens.”
We rode in silence while familiar places drifted by: the park where I’d pushed little Rosie on the swings, the school library where I worked nearly four decades, the bakery Humphrey and I visited every Sunday.
Humphrey.
I could almost hear him: Trix, don’t let them treat you like that.
He’d always been stronger than me. Better with boundaries. I… I just loved them too much.
At home, the house greeted me with stillness—an old, well-kept place on Oak Street, the last piece of my parents left to me. I made herbal tea like the doctor recommended, even though sleep had been a stranger since Humphrey died.
Upstairs, I sat by the window in my nightgown, tea warming my hands.
And the words came back, echoing like a curse: Shut up, widw.*
As if that was all I was. As if sixty-seven years of living had been reduced to one label.