At sixty-two, I never imagined my son would offer me a couch while giving his mother-in-law a luxury apartment. “If you wanted comfort, you should’ve stayed married to Dad,” he said, cutting me deeper than the divorce itself. My life had shrunk to two suitcases and a broken heart, rules whispered through walls: don’t touch the thermostat, don’t cook what smells, don’t use the good towels. I was invisible in the home of the child I had raised with unwavering devotion.
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