My son stated, «We can’t keep you here, you need to leave.» So I departed…

I read it once, then again. It wasn’t just a consent form. It was a partial power of attorney disguised in legal jargon that would give him limited… access to manage the foreclosure proceedings, which meant bank accounts, which meant my retirement fund.

I set the paper down. Get out, I said. He blinked.

Mom? Out. He stood slowly like he thought he could salvage the moment. With one more line.

We’re going to lose the baby’s future, Mom. I looked him dead in the eye. You already did.

He left without another word. I locked the door behind him and stood there until my hands stopped shaking. Then I called the motel front desk and asked to be moved to a new room.

Different. Floor. Different hallway.

They didn’t ask why. I packed everything in 15 minutes and changed rooms before dinner. I blocked Josh’s number that night.

Not because I was angry, but because I had to protect myself from the part of me that still wanted to believe he meant it when he said he messed up. The next morning, I walked to the housing board office and handed Doreen the card she’d given. Me.

She looked up from her desk and smiled like she’d been expecting me. I want to move on, I told her. Not just from them.

From all of it. She didn’t say, I’m proud of you, or, you’re doing the right thing. She just slid a folder across the table labeled, Senior Housing, Coastal Options.

And on the first page was a two-bedroom condo near Wilmington with a porch and ocean access and a rent I could afford with my pension. I circled it. This one, I said.

That evening, I received one last email. This time from Megan. No emojis.

No hashtags. Just a short, raw message that read, I don’t know what we’re supposed to do now. We have nothing.

I know you hate me. But think of the baby. I stared at the screen for a long time, feeling the heat of those words press against my ribs.

Then I closed the laptop, made myself a cup of tea, and watched the sun dip behind the motel parking lot. I didn’t reply. Not yet.

Because what I was planning next wasn’t a response. It was a reckoning. Three days passed with no word.

Then, at 7.42 p.m. on a Sunday, there was a knock. I was in pajama pants, halfway through a cup of peppermint. Tea, when I looked through the peephole and saw her.

Megan. Hair messier than usual, holding a bundled-up infant in a soft pink blanket and a diaper bag slung over her shoulder like a peace offering. I didn’t open the door.

Linda, she called softly. I’m not here to fight. I just… We don’t know what to do anymore.

Josh is falling apart. We got kicked out of the rental we found. They said we failed a credit check.

Please. Can I come in? I cracked the door two inches. Her makeup was smudged and her eyes were red.

The baby, a girl, I realized, stirred slightly and let out a soft, fussy squeak. Megan rocked her gently. Her name’s Emily, she whispered.

She’s yours, too. Don’t shut us out. That part hit harder than I expected.

I hadn’t known the baby’s name. I hadn’t wanted to. I opened the door and let her in.

She stepped inside slowly, like a guest who wasn’t sure of the rules. She glanced around the tiny room and gave a tired smile. You still like it cold in here, huh? I didn’t respond.

She sat down carefully on the edge of the motel bed, bouncing Emily gently. We really screwed up, she said. I said things I didn’t mean.

We were stressed, scared. I nodded, not because I forgave her, but because I wanted her to keep talking. Josh is too proud to admit it, she went on.

But he’s drowning. We both are. Our bank accounts are frozen…