Chapter 1: The Sofa and the Shadow
At sixty-two, I never imagined I’d end up sleeping on the sofa bed in my own son’s living room. My whole life, reduced to two suitcases and a handbag. The divorce papers were still hot from the lawyer’s printer when Marvin, my only son, offered me what he called “a temporary solution.” Temporary. As if the collapse of a thirty-year marriage were just a passing inconvenience.
The morning light filtered through the pristine white curtains of Dorothy, his wife, casting shadows on the wooden floor I couldn’t walk on with shoes. Every rule in that house was unspoken but absolute: don’t use the good towels, don’t touch the thermostat, don’t cook anything that would smell. I had become a ghost, haunting the edges of a perfect life that wasn’t mine.
“Mom, you’re up early,” Marvin appeared in the kitchen doorway, already dressed in his charcoal gray suit. At thirty-five, I had inherited my father’s firm jaw and my stubbornness, although I seemed to have forgotten where the latter came from.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I replied, making instant coffee with water heated in the microwave. The proper coffee maker was off-limits: “It was a wedding gift,” Dorothy explained with a forced smile.
Marvin shifted nervously, like when he was a kid and had to confess something.
“Dorothy and I were talking,” he began. “We think maybe you should start looking for something more… permanent.”
The coffee turned bitter in my mouth.
“Permanent arrangements?
” “Retirement homes. They have excellent programs now.”
“Sure.” I slammed the cup down on the table harder than necessary. “How silly of me to think I could stay here until I could walk again.”
“Don’t be like that. You know we want to help you.”
“Help me?” The word came out sharper than I intended. “Marvin, you took Dorothy’s mother to see that new apartment complex on Maple Street yesterday. The one with the granite countertops.
Her Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.
” “That’s different. Her mother has specific needs.”
“My specific need is a bed that isn’t your couch.”
Dorothy appeared then, her blonde hair pulled back in a neat bun. She moved around the kitchen with studied efficiency, avoiding my gaze.
“Good morning, Martha,” she said without looking up. The use of my full name was a constant reminder that I wasn’t family, but a guest who had overstayed her welcome.
The spare room, which they used for storing boxes, had been emptied and painted a soft yellow the week before, preparing it for their first child. Dorothy was barely showing, but they had already started shopping for cribs.
“Dorothy needs the space to get the nursery ready,” Marvin explained. “She’s been very stressed.”
“I didn’t suggest staying there forever, Marvin. Just until we find somewhere else.”
Dorothy finally looked at me, her green eyes cold and calculating.
“Martha, I don’t think you understand the point. This is about boundaries. About what’s appropriate.”
“Appropriate?” I repeated. And what would be appropriate for a woman whose husband of thirty years left her for his secretary?
“Mom, no…
” “Marvin, let me get this straight. Does your unborn child need his own room more than your homeless mother needs a bed? Is that right?”
The blood drained from Marvin’s face.
“You’re not homeless. You have options. Dad offered you the apartment in Florida.”
“Your father offered me a one-bedroom apartment 2,000 miles away, only if I signed away half my estate. Very generous.”
The whir of Dorothy’s blender drowned out any reply. When the motor stopped, the silence was heavier.
“If you wanted comfort,” Marvin said finally, in a low voice, “you should have stayed married to Dad.”
The words hit me like a punch. I looked at my son, the man I had raised, fed, and loved unconditionally, and saw a stranger.
“I see,” I said, setting the cup in the sink. “Thanks for clarifying my place here.”
I spent the day looking for rentals on my phone, recalculating my meager savings. I had exactly 847 dollars in my account. At 62, jobless and creditless, that was like having eight cents.
That evening I went to the corner store. At the register, I stared at the lottery ticket display. The Powerball was at 300 million. I heard myself say,
“A quick pick, please.”
Mr. Patel put the ticket in the machine. A rectangular piece of paper popped out: 7, 14, 23, 31, 42. Powerball 18.
“Good luck,” she said, handing me my change. Eight dollars. All I had left.
The apartment was empty when I got back. A note on the counter: Marvin and Dorothy had gone to her mother’s for dinner. Of course. I settled on the couch and turned on the news.
At 11:17 p.m., the lottery numbers appeared on the screen.
7, 14, 23, 31, 42. Powerball 18.
I stared at the TV, convinced I was hallucinating. I pulled out the ticket with trembling hands and checked the numbers again and again. They all matched. The ticket fell to the floor as I sank into the cushions. Three hundred million dollars. After taxes, enough to never sleep on anyone else’s couch again. Enough to look my son in the eye and tell him exactly what I thought of his “tough love.”
The question wasn’t what he would do with the money. The question was what he would do with the power.