After my husband passed away, I often went to bed hungry. I only prepared substantial meals during holidays when my son visited. This year, he got married. His wedding was during the Christmas holidays, and I was thrilled to celebrate with him and his wife. I put all my love and effort into cooking dinner, hoping to make it a memorable evening.
As we gathered around the table, the aroma of roasted turkey and freshly baked bread filled the room. Watching my son and his wife share glances and smiles warmed my heart, but I couldn’t shake the nervousness I felt around his new wife, Rebecca.
After dinner, while my son stepped out to take a call, Rebecca approached me. She looked serious, her eyes piercing into mine. I braced myself, unsure of what to expect.
“Mrs. Johnson,” she began, her voice low but firm, “I need to talk to you about something important.”
I nodded, my heart pounding. “Of course, dear. What is it?”
Rebecca took a deep breath and then said words that will always haunt me: “You can’t keep expecting us to take care of you. We’re starting our own family now. You need to learn to stand on your own.”
Her words hit me like a ton of bricks. I felt the room spin and my knees weaken. The excitement and joy I had felt moments ago evaporated, replaced by a deep, aching sadness.
“But… I’m not asking for much,” I stammered, trying to hold back my tears. “I just wanted to make you both a nice meal.”
Rebecca’s expression softened slightly, but her resolve remained. “We appreciate that, but we have our own lives to live. We can’t be responsible for you.”
The rest of the evening passed in a blur. I forced a smile, trying to hide the pain Rebecca’s words had caused. When they left, I sat in the empty house, the silence deafening. The holiday meal I had been so excited to prepare felt like a cruel reminder of how alone I was.
From that day on, the hunger I felt was no longer just physical. It was a deep, gnawing emptiness, a reminder of the loneliness that now defined my life.
