Doctors Found Something Unusual During My Medical Exam, but a 12-Year-Old Record About My Husband Left My Son Speechless

On the first Sunday in September, the family came for dinner.

They do that once a month. It’s the only thing I’ve asked them for since Robert died.

My oldest son, Thomas, came with his wife, Sarah, and their two youngest grandchildren. Thomas is sixty-one. He’s an accountant, like I always knew he’d be. Even as a little boy, he lined up his crayons by color and counted them before bed.

My daughter, Claire, called on video from Phoenix, where she’s lived for twenty years. The grandchildren held the iPad up to the pot roast so she could see it.

Daniel couldn’t make it. He’s my youngest. Fifty-six. He’s a high school history teacher in Glastonbury, and he was chaperoning some kind of field trip.

I’d made pot roast and mashed potatoes and green beans with almonds. The same meal I’d made for Sunday dinner since 1970.

Halfway through dinner, Thomas set down his fork.

“Mom, I want to talk to you about the house again.”

I sighed. “Thomas, not tonight.”

“It’s always not tonight. We need to talk about it sometime.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “You’re eighty. The stairs are steep. The furnace is thirty years old. The property taxes went up again. Eight thousand four hundred this year.”

“I know what the property taxes are. I pay them.”

“You pay them out of Dad’s pension and your Social Security, and there’s barely anything left over at the end of the month. I’ve seen the statements.”

He has, too. Thomas has had power of attorney over my finances since I had pneumonia three years ago. I signed it in a lawyer’s office in West Hartford when I was too tired to argue. It was supposed to be just for emergencies. Thomas doesn’t really believe in the word just.

“I talked to a place in Avon,” he went on. “Brookside Senior Living. It’s beautiful, Mom. They have a library and a garden. Independent living to start, and assisted living if you need it later. The house would sell for at least four-ten. Probably more. That would cover Brookside for years.”

“I’m not moving to Avon.”

“Mom—”

“Your father and I raised you in this house. He planted that maple tree. I’m going to die in this house, Thomas, and you can sell it afterward and buy yourself a boat.”

The grandchildren went very quiet.

Thomas’s face got red. He picked his fork back up and stabbed a green bean.

That was when Sarah spoke.

Sarah is Thomas’s wife. She’s a dental hygienist, soft-spoken, and she married into this family thirty-four years ago and has never once called me anything but Mom. She’s the kind of person who notices when you’ve lost weight, or when you’re limping, or when you’ve been crying.

She was looking at my stomach.

“Mom, can I ask you something?”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

She hesitated. Then she said gently, “Have you spoken to your doctor about the swelling?”

Everyone looked at me.

I laughed lightly and patted my dress. “Sarah, I’m eighty years old. My body doesn’t work quite like it used to.”

But she didn’t smile.

“Margaret,” she said. She never uses my first name. “I really think you should have it checked. Please.”

Thomas looked at my stomach too, then. Really looked, for the first time all night.

“Mom,” he said slowly. “How long has it been like that?”

“A little while.”

“How long is a little while?”

“Since spring, I suppose.”

He stared at me.

“Since spring? Mom, that’s six months!”

“Don’t shout at me in my own dining room.”

“I’m not shouting. I’m—” He put his hands flat on the table. “You need to see a doctor. This week.”

“I’ll call Dr. Abrams’s office tomorrow,” I said.

“Dr. Abrams retired three years ago, Mom.”

I’d forgotten that.

Sarah reached across the table and squeezed my hand.

“I’ll make the appointment for you,” she said. “If you want.”

I promised I would do it myself.

I didn’t.