I spent my life giving them everything, and now I’m a burden

I was on the phone with my daughter last Tuesday, trying to explain that the kitchen faucet had started leaking again, and she said, “Mom, can’t you just call a plumber? That’s what they’re for.” Like I was asking her to fly home and re-plumb the whole house. I just wanted to tell someone who might care that the cabinet under the sink is starting to warp.

She was in her car. I could hear the blinker. She was probably on her way to pick up one of the boys from soccer. Or maybe it was the younger one from daycare. I get them mixed up now. She has two boys, and they both play soccer, and I can never remember which one has practice on Tuesdays.

“I know what a plumber is for, sweetheart,” I said. “I just thought you’d want to know.”

“Mom, I’m not saying I don’t want to know. I’m just saying I can’t do anything about it from here.”

I didn’t say anything for a minute. The leak was dripping into a plastic bowl I’d put under the pipe. I could hear it, a little tap every few seconds. It sounded like someone knocking on a door very far away.

She said she’d call me back on Sunday. That was six days ago. I’m still waiting.

I’m not angry. I’m too tired to be angry. I worked thirty-one years at the county assessor’s office, and before that I worked part-time at a drugstore, and before that I was a waitress at a diner that’s been torn down for twenty years. I put two kids through college. My son went to Northwestern. My daughter went to Emory. I was so proud of them I used to carry their graduation pictures in my purse, the little wallet-size ones, and show them to the ladies at church like they were my own diplomas.

Now my son lives in Chicago and works for a consulting firm. He calls on my birthday and sometimes on Mother’s Day. He sends flowers. Last year he sent a gift card to a restaurant I’ve never been to because it’s forty minutes away and I don’t like driving at night anymore.

My daughter lives in Atlanta. She’s a marketing director for a hospital system. She’s very busy. She tells me she’s very busy every time we talk. I know she is. I believe her. But I also know she took the boys to Disney World in March and didn’t tell me until after they got back because she said she didn’t want me to worry about them flying.

I don’t worry about them flying. I worry about them forgetting I’m still here.

The house is too big for me now. Four bedrooms. I raised two children in this house. I remember sitting at the kitchen table at midnight, helping my son with his algebra homework, even though I barely understood it myself. I remember sewing my daughter’s prom dress because we couldn’t afford to buy one, and she cried because it wasn’t from a store, and then she wore it anyway and got compliments all night.

I skipped vacations. I drove the same car for fourteen years. I never bought myself a new winter coat unless the old one had holes in it. I did all of that so they could have what I didn’t have. And now they have it. And I’m happy for them. I really am.

But last month I fell in the bathroom. I didn’t tell them because I knew what they’d say. They’d say I should move to a smaller place. They’d say I should hire someone to check on me. They’d say all the right things in the wrong tone of voice, like I was a problem they had to solve from a distance.

I got up on my own. It took me a long time. I sat on the edge of the tub and waited for the dizziness to pass. Then I made myself a cup of tea and watched the evening news and went to bed.

The next morning, I called a handyman about the faucet. His name is Rick. He’s a nice young man. He came over and fixed it in about an hour. He charged me eighty-five dollars. I paid him in cash. He said the cabinet would dry out fine if I kept a fan on it for a few days.

I didn’t tell my daughter. What would be the point? She’d just say, “See? You didn’t need me after all.”

But I did need her. I needed her to say, “Mom, that sounds frustrating. Tell me more.” I needed her to remember that I used to sit on the floor of her bedroom and read her stories until she fell asleep. I needed her to know that I’m not asking for much. Just a phone call that doesn’t feel like an interruption.

My son called last night. I was surprised. He asked how I was doing. I said fine. He asked if I needed anything. I said no. He said he’d try to come visit in the fall. I said that would be nice. Then he said he had to go because he was meeting some clients for dinner.

I hung up and sat in the dark living room for a while. The streetlight outside was making shadows on the wall. I thought about all the nights I sat in that same room, waiting for them to come home from dances and football games and late shifts at the mall. I never went to bed until I knew they were safe.

Now I go to bed whenever I want. There’s no one to wait for.

I’m not telling this story because I want sympathy. I’m telling it because I think there are a lot of women like me, sitting in quiet houses, waiting for phone calls that don’t come, feeling like a burden to the people they carried on their hips for years. We’re not asking for much. We’re just asking to be remembered.

The faucet is fixed now. The cabinet is drying out. I’ll be fine. I’ve always been fine.

But sometimes I wish I could go back to those midnight algebra sessions, just for one night, and have my son look at me like I was the smartest person in the world, even though I wasn’t. Even though I was just his mom, doing the best I could.