After being diagnosed with Osteoporosis at the age of 81, I faced the harsh reality that my mobility and independence were becoming limited. My son Tyler and his wife Macy decided that I could no longer stay with them and suggested I move to a nursing home. “We can’t be tending to you all day, Mom,” Tyler said, his tone surprisingly indifferent. “We have work to do. We’re not caregivers.”
I was heartbroken. I had always tried to stay out of their way, using my walker to move around the house quietly, but it seemed my efforts were in vain. I pleaded with Tyler to let me stay, reminding him that his father, my late husband James, had built the house for us, and I wanted to live out my days there. But Tyler was unmoved. “Mom, the house is too big for you. Macy and I could really use the space. We could have a gym, separate offices… there’s so much we could do with it.”
