After Dad died six years ago, Mom, Colleen, drifted through life like a ghost. They’d been college sweethearts, married 32 years. He’d bring her coffee every morning; she’d fold his socks just the way he liked.
I called her every day, but phone calls couldn’t fill the empty chair at her dinner table.
“I’m fine,” she’d say, but I could hear the hollowness in her voice.
Then came Raymond, a professor at the community college where Mom worked. He started bringing her lunch, offering to fix things around the house, and eventually, they got married. I wanted to believe he was good for her, but I was wrong.
Six months later, I visited. Mom seemed frail, pale, and tired. She claimed it was just a cold, but I wasn’t convinced. Raymond was controlling—complaining about leftovers and throwing dishes. I froze when I saw Mom on her knees cleaning up the mess, afraid and submissive.
I decided to help. For four days, I cooked elaborate meals for Raymond while he bragged about them to his friends. On the last night, I served him “herb-crusted lamb” made from leftovers. He freaked out when he realized what I had done, and I confronted him about how he treated Mom.
The next day, I took Mom out to dinner. When we returned, we packed Raymond’s things while he was at work. We changed the locks.
Three months later, Mom called me about Raymond wanting to come back. She told him no, and then joked, “I’m having lasagna tonight. The same one I made yesterday. And it’s delicious!”
“And Mom? You know what goes great with lasagna? Freedom!” Her laughter filled the room.
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