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 sat back in my chair, stared at the numbers.

$7,300 in one month.

I pulled up my statements from the last six months.

August 2023: $4,200 to Jeffrey, $1,500 to Abigail.

September 2023: $3,800 to Jeffrey, $2,000 to Abigail.

October 2023: $2,500 to Jeffrey, $900 to Abigail.

November 2023: $5,100 to Jeffrey, $1,200 to Abigail.

December 2023: $2,800 to Jeffrey, $1,800 to Abigail.

January 2024: $6,500 to Jeffrey, $800 to Abigail.

Total: $26,000 in six months.

My pension was $3,200 a month. I was giving away more than I was keeping.

I picked up my phone, almost called Jeffrey, put it down.

What would I say? Stop asking me for money?

But they weren’t forcing me. I was giving it freely. Every time they asked, I said yes—because saying yes meant they needed me. And being needed felt like being loved.

I closed my laptop, poured the rest of my coffee down the sink, and realized I’d been buying my children’s attention for two years without even knowing it.

May 2024.

Tuesday, May 14th, 2024. 2:47 p.m.

I was in the garden when it happened.

The garden. God, I hadn’t been out there in months. Maybe a year.

It was Frank’s garden, really. He’d planted it in 2015—twelve varieties of tomatoes, each one a different color, different size, different flavor. Cherokee Purple. Green Zebra. Sun Gold. Brandywine.

“Why twelve?” I’d asked him once.

“Because I like the way they look together,” he’d said. “Different, but growing in the same soil.”

The garden had gone wild. Weeds everywhere. The raised beds sagging. But I’d finally forced myself outside that afternoon, determined to reclaim it.

I was kneeling in the dirt, pulling weeds, when I felt the sharp pain in my wrist. I’d reached for a root, twisted wrong, heard something pop.

The pain was immediate and bright. I sat back, cradling my wrist. It was already swelling.

I pulled out my phone with my good hand. Texted the family group chat:

“Sharon: I fell in the garden. Hurt my wrist pretty badly. Heading to the ER. Don’t worry, I’m okay to drive. Just wanted you to know.”

Sent 2:51 p.m.

I drove myself to Metobrook General. Sat in the ER waiting room for an hour. X-ray: fracture. Not terrible, but bad enough. They put me in a splint, gave me a prescription for pain meds, told me to follow up with an orthopedist.

I checked my phone in the waiting room.