After An Argument, My Son Left Me At A Bus Stop With Nothing On Me. A Man Beside Me Whispered, ‘Pretend To Be My Wife. My Driver Is Coming. Your Son Will WISH HE’D HANDLED THIS DIFFERENTLY.’

The screech of tires on asphalt—a final punctuation to our argument. At 67, I never imagined I’d be standing abandoned at a bus stop, my own son driving away in anger. “I’m not a child, Daniel,” I had told him, my voice trembling despite my efforts to remain calm.

“I don’t need you arranging my life as if I’m incompetent.”

His response had been predictably dismissive. “Mom, you’re being unreasonable. That senior living facility is perfect.

They have activities, medical staff, everything you need.”

“Everything except my independence,” I’d countered. That’s when he’d pulled over abruptly. “Fine.