The Satellite Son and the Cane Son: When Money Can’t Carry Grief

his back on me and walked into Mom’s old room, closing the door to take his first real nap in years.

I was left alone in that silent kitchen. I looked at my Swiss watch. I looked at my Italian leather shoes.

Suddenly, it all looked like garbage.

I was the economic provider, yes. But he was the son. I paid for the pills, but he put them in her mouth. I continue reading …