When I left for college, I thought my mom, Paula, could finally live for herself. She’d spent years caring for others—first my dad, then me, then her demanding job as a hospital administrator. So when she started seeing Dennis, a coworker, I was glad she had someone to care for her.
Dennis seemed fine at first—polite, attentive—but after their quick marriage, small signs started worrying me. One snowy morning, I drove over unannounced and found my mom scrubbing floors and hauling laundry with a broken leg. She explained Dennis expected the house spotless for his daughter’s visit and even told her to shovel the driveway herself.
I was furious. I wrapped her in blankets, got her out safely, and called for help—snow removal, a nurse, and city inspectors. When Dennis and his daughter arrived, they were confronted with the truth. My mom’s pain was undeniable, and Dennis’s demands became exposed.
That night, my mom stayed with me. For the first time in years, she rested, cared for herself, and felt safe. Two weeks later, she filed for divorce. She told me, “You saved me.” I just smiled: sometimes showing up is enough.