I used to design flight control systems for fighter jets. Now, I am the woman my son calls a burden. I stood alone in the snow on Christmas Eve outside his pristine townhouse on the Upper West Side of New York. I had taken a redeye flight from Arizona just to surprise them. I had not seen them in over a year. The last time we spoke on the phone, his voice was clipped, impatient: “Mom, things are hectic right now. We’ll call you once things settle down.” But they never did. Not for birthdays, not for Thanksgiving, not even when my arthritis flared so badly I could not hold a fork.
I brought a small red suitcase. Inside it, I packed handmade cookies, a scarf I had knitted for my granddaughter, and a single manila folder—the one that held the deed, the transfer papers, and the investment certificates worth $29 million. It was not a gift I planned to announce with fanfare. It was going to be a quiet blessing, just like the decades I spent making sure they had everything they needed.
