The night my son shut the door in my face, I was holding a small suitcase, a bag of medicine, pain climbing through my right hip, and a kind of shame so deep I thought for one terrible second it might split me open right there in his doorway, over the polished tile I had once helped pay for.
It had been raining since late afternoon, that cold, stubborn November drizzle that leaves San Antonio smelling like wet pavement, gasoline, and crushed leaves. The gated neighborhood where Daniel lived with his wife, Rebecca, looked spotless as always—trimmed shrubs, warm porch lights, oversized SUVs behind automatic gates, and that sterile kind of quiet people mistake for safety, as if money can keep sorrow away.
I arrived by taxi a little after eight. The doctor had told me clearly that I shouldn’t spend the next few days alone. I had slipped on the wet front steps of my apartment building, hit my hip hard, and while nothing was broken, the pain was sharp, the medication made me dizzy, and I had been warned not to go up and down stairs by myself while I recovered.