I woke before the alarm.
For a few seconds, I couldn't remember why I felt so tired.
Then I saw my telephone beside the bed.
I picked it up.
No messages.
No missed calls.
I placed it down again.
The first thing I noticed was that I wasn't immediately afraid.
Usually, I woke wondering whether Spencer had needed something during the night.
If he had called and I hadn't heard the telephone, I worried that I had failed him.
If he hadn't called, I worried that something might be wrong.
There was always a reason to worry.
That morning, the worry was still there, but it wasn't the first thing I felt.
I felt tired.
I felt hurt.
And I felt the smallest amount of relief that I had made it through one night without trying to solve another problem.
I got dressed and went to the kitchen.
The drawer where I had placed the lottery ticket was closed.
I didn't open it.
I made coffee and sat at the table with the list I had written the previous afternoon.
The figures were still there.
I checked them again.
I wasn't trying to convince myself that the money was real.
I was trying to understand how much of my life had been shaped by the fear of not having enough.
I had delayed replacing things around the house.
I had stopped buying small comforts because every spare dollar seemed to belong to Spencer's next expense.
I had worried about groceries.
I had worried about loan payments.
I had worried about whether I could keep helping if his needs increased.
Those worries had followed me everywhere.
Now there was a possibility that I could put them down.
Not all at once.
Not carelessly.
But one by one.
I took a clean sheet of paper and wrote three words at the top.
My own needs.
I stared at them.
It felt selfish.
That was the first honest reaction I had.
I had spent so long putting my own needs at the bottom of the list that seeing them written at the top made me uncomfortable.
I almost crossed the words out.
Instead, I left them there.
I wrote down the things I had been postponing.
Paying my debts.
Keeping enough money for ordinary living expenses.
Making sure I wasn't forced to borrow again if an unexpected bill arrived.
I didn't write anything extravagant.
I didn't imagine a new house or an expensive car.
I wanted a life in which opening the mail didn't make my chest tighten.
I wanted to buy groceries without calculating every item in my head.
I wanted to keep something from my mother without wondering whether I would eventually have to sell it.
Those wishes seemed small beside twenty million dollars.
But they mattered to me.
I took another sip of coffee.
Then I thought about Spencer.
I wondered whether he was awake.
I wondered whether he had eaten breakfast.
I wondered whether he had slept any better than I had.
My concern for him hadn't disappeared.
I didn't want it to.
But I was beginning to see that concern didn't have to mean immediate action.
I could care about him and still wait before making a decision.
I could love him and still ask questions.
I could help him without giving away every dollar I had simply because I was frightened.
Those ideas sounded reasonable when I put them into words.
Living by them was another matter.
I had spent years believing that a mother should be willing to give everything.
I had never stopped to ask whether giving everything would leave anything useful for the person receiving it.
I folded the list and placed it beside the bills.
Then I took out my telephone and called Spencer.
He answered after several rings.
"Hi, Mom."
His voice sounded sleepy.
"Did I wake you?"
"A little."
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay."
I waited a moment.
I wanted to ask whether he had felt worse during the night.
I wanted to ask whether anyone had come by to check on him.
Instead, I asked how he was feeling.
"About the same," he said.
I closed my eyes briefly.
The words were ordinary.
They were the same sort of answer I had heard before.
But now I wondered how much meaning they carried.
"I'm glad you answered," I said.
"Why wouldn't I?"
The question came quickly.
I didn't know how to respond.
I had no reason to explain what I had heard.
Not over the telephone.
Not before I understood how I wanted to handle it.
"I just wanted to check on you," I said.
There was a brief silence.
Then Spencer asked whether I had made any progress with the expenses.
I looked at the list on the table.
The debts were written in my own handwriting.
The ticket was in the drawer.
For months, that question would have sent me into an explanation about what I could sell, whom I could call, and how much time I had left before another payment was due.
This time, I paused.
"I'm working through the numbers," I told him.
"Okay."
"I need to make sure I understand everything before I make any decisions."
He didn't answer immediately.
I couldn't tell whether he was surprised or simply distracted.
Then he said, "All right, Mom."
His tone was calm.
I waited for him to ask another question.
He didn't.
We spoke for another minute about ordinary things.
Then I told him I would check on him later.
After we ended the call, I kept the telephone in my hand.
I hadn't refused him anything.
I hadn't accused him of anything.
I had only told him that I needed time to understand my own finances.
It was such a small boundary that I almost felt foolish for being proud of it.
But I was proud.
I had finally said something without immediately adding a promise that I would find a way.
I set the telephone down.
Then I opened the drawer and took out the lottery ticket.
I looked at it for a long time.
The numbers were still printed clearly across the paper.
I had checked them so many times that there was no reason to check again.
Still, I did.
Then I returned it to the envelope.
I wasn't ready to tell Spencer about it.
I wasn't ready to decide how much of the money he might need or how much I could safely offer.
And I wasn't ready to pretend that winning had answered the question that mattered most.
I needed to know whether he would be honest with me when he believed I had nothing more to give.
I didn't know how to find that answer without turning our relationship into a test.
I didn't want to play games with my son.
I didn't want to frighten him or make him suffer.
I wanted the truth.
And I wanted to be able to hear it without immediately searching for an excuse.
I placed the envelope back in the drawer and shut it.
Then I finished my coffee.
The rest of the morning passed quietly.
I paid one small household bill.
I sorted the mail.
I swept the kitchen floor and wiped down the counter.
Those ordinary tasks helped me feel as though I still had some control over my own life.
I wasn't solving everything.
I was simply taking care of what was in front of me.
At lunchtime, I checked my telephone again.
There was no new message from Spencer.
I told myself not to assign meaning to that.
He was in the hospital.
He had his own concerns.
A quiet morning didn't prove that he was hiding anything.
I repeated that thought because I wanted to be fair.
If I was going to question what he had said, I had to be willing to admit what I didn't know.
I couldn't use a few sentences to explain his entire life.
But I also couldn't erase those sentences because I loved him.
Both things were true.
I was still sitting with that uncomfortable truth when I realized something else.
For months, I had believed the worst thing that could happen was that I would run out of money before Spencer got better.
Now I understood that I had been afraid of something else, too.
I was afraid that if I stopped giving, I might discover that giving was the only thing holding us together.
I didn't want that to be true.
I wasn't ready to find out whether it was.
But I knew I could no longer ignore the possibility.
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: I Wanted to Believe There Was an Explanation for His Words, but Every Time I Remembered His Laugh, Another Easy Excuse Fell Away
I Thought Twenty Million Dollars Would Finally Give My Son His Life Back, Until I Heard the Conversation Behind His Hospital Door
Part 6 of 20
