Sixteen years ago, my life divided into a clear before and after.
At fifty-six, I was still moving from one small rental to another, doing whatever work I could to survive, when my son Mark achieved something I never had. At just twenty-nine, with hands worn from construction work and an unbreakable optimism, he bought a modest single-story house for his wife, Melissa, and their young daughter, Emma. It wasn’t luxurious, but it was sturdy—a place meant to last, a place where a family could put down roots.
I still remember sitting at the tiny kitchen table as Mark poured coffee, his face lit with excitement as he talked about the future. He dreamed of adding rooms, building a porch, putting a swing set in the yard. Half-joking, he even said he’d build me a small room above the garage someday so I’d never have to move again. I had never felt prouder of him.
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