PART 13 — The signature
The tip of the pen hovered over the official form that would seal the definitive eviction of my son and his family. A single signature and Mark would lose not only the house, but also any pretense of family security.
Memories flashed through my mind. The nights he lay sick in bed, the extra hours at the supermarket, the vacations I sacrificed. I had given everything for him. And what had I gotten in return? A suitcase, a cold glance, and a one-way ticket to a care home.
Mark looked at me pleadingly, his breath catching in his throat. “Mom... please. Think of the children. Where are Sarah and I supposed to go?”
I looked him deep in the eyes. “To the exact same place you sent me this morning, Mark. To the harsh reality of personal responsibility.”
I put the tip of the pen to the paper. The ink began to flow. I drew the first line of my signature, when the realization of what I was doing cut through my soul like a knife. Was this what all those years of sacrifice had to lead to? A war over stones and paper?
Suddenly, a loud knock sounded on the front door. Not the soft tapping of the rain, but a loud, intrusive pounding that echoed through the entire house, as if someone wanted to break in urgently.
