My ten daughters left me alone on Christmas night. They said, “We have our own lives, Mom. Stop interfering.” By morning, their bank accounts were empty, and every house they were counting on was sold. My phone had 76 missed calls.

I hadn’t been somewhere else with my phone in my purse.

I’d been there.

But when I needed them? Five hours. Eight hours. Radio silence.

I turned off my phone, went to bed, and cried into my pillow so quietly that even I could barely hear it.

August 2024.

Saturday, August 10th, 2024.

Patricia Moore showed up at my door unannounced at 2:00 p.m. with a box of pastries from the French bakery downtown. Patricia had been my best friend since nursing school. We’d met in 1984, both wide-eyed 22-year-olds who thought we could save the world. She’d lost her husband Tom five years ago. She understood.

“I brought croissants,” she said, pushing past me into the kitchen. “And I’m not leaving until you talk to me.”

“About what?”

She set the box on the counter, turned to look at me. “Sharon, when’s the last time you left this house?”

I thought about it. “I went to the grocery store on Wednesday.”

Patricia’s eyes didn’t move. “When’s the last time you did something just for yourself?”

I opened my mouth, closed it.

“Exactly,” Patricia said. She pulled out a chair, sat down, gestured for me to do the same. I sat. She opened the pastry box, handed me a chocolate croissant. “Eat.”

I took a bite. It was good. I hadn’t realized I was hungry.

“Now,” Patricia said, “tell me what’s really going on.”

“Nothing’s going on. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re disappearing.”

I looked up sharply. “What?”

“Sharon, I’ve known you for forty years, and I’ve watched you get smaller and smaller over the last two. You don’t go anywhere. You don’t do anything. You just sit in this house waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“For them.”

My throat tightened.

Patricia leaned forward. “When’s the last time Jeffrey came to visit? Not asked for money. Visited.”

I thought about it. Couldn’t remember.

“When’s the last time Abigail stayed for more than an hour?”

I looked down at my hands.

“Exactly,” Patricia said softly. “Sharon, they’re taking you for granted, and you’re letting them. They’re busy. Everyone’s busy. But people make time for what matters.”