The following morning, I found myself reaching for the telephone before I had even finished my coffee.
I wanted to call Spencer.
That had become a habit I couldn't easily break.
I wanted to know how he was feeling before I made plans for my own day.
I wanted to hear whether anything had changed.
I wanted to be sure he hadn't spent the night worrying about something I could have helped with.
I held the telephone for a moment.
Then I put it down.
I wasn't going to stop checking on him.
I wasn't going to turn concern into a punishment.
But I needed to stop behaving as though I had to be available every moment to prove that I loved him.
I finished my coffee first.
Then I washed the cup and set it aside.
Afterward, I called him.
He answered and greeted me.
We spoke about how he was feeling.
He said he was still waiting for more information.
I told him I hoped he would get some answers soon.
The conversation was calm.
There was no argument.
There was no request for money at first.
For a few minutes, I almost felt as though I could return to the way things had been.
Then Spencer asked whether I had worked out the financial situation.
I felt my shoulders tighten.
I didn't want to react that way.
I didn't want every question about money to make me remember the conversation outside his room.
But the memory was still there.
I could hear his voice as clearly as if I were standing in the corridor again.
I had to take a breath before answering.
"I'm still working through it," I said.
"I thought you might have figured something out by now."
"I've made progress."
"Can you tell me what that means?"
I looked at the papers on the table.
"It means I understand my debts better than I did before. I'm working out how to handle them."
He didn't respond immediately.
I waited.
Then he said, "I just need to know that things are going to be okay."
I understood the words.
I understood the worry behind them, or at least the possibility of worry.
I wanted to reassure him.
I wanted to say that everything would be fine.
Those words had always come easily to me.
But I had learned that a promise could be comforting without being honest.
I couldn't guarantee that everything would be okay.
I couldn't promise that there would never be another expense.
I couldn't promise that the money would solve every problem.
So I told him what I could truthfully say.
"I'm working on making things more secure."
He was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, "All right."
We spoke a little longer before ending the call.
I put the telephone down and looked at the papers.
I had not told him about the lottery.
I had not explained why I was suddenly less willing to promise immediate help.
But I had been honest about what I was doing.
That was something.
I went through the bills again and organized them by due date.
The task took longer than I expected.
I had to check a few amounts and find the notes I had made about the loans.
At one point, I found an old envelope containing a receipt for the sewing machine.
I stared at it.
I remembered carrying the machine into the shop.
I remembered the weight of it.
I remembered the man's question about whether I was sure.
I had been sure at the time.
I had believed I was doing the only thing a mother could do.
I still didn't regret trying to help Spencer.
But I regretted how little attention I had paid to the cost of helping.
I had treated my own losses as insignificant because they were mine.
That was the part I needed to change.
I folded the receipt and placed it back in the envelope.
Then I set it aside.
I didn't want to keep using the memory to make myself feel guilty.
I had made the decision with the information and beliefs I had at the time.
Now I had more information.
I needed to act accordingly.
That afternoon, I went for a short walk.
I hadn't done that in weeks.
Usually, I stayed close to the house because I wanted to be available if Spencer called.
I carried my telephone in my pocket, but I didn't keep checking it.
The air was warm.
A car passed slowly along the street.
I walked past the houses and noticed small things I had ignored for months.
A flowerpot near a doorway.
A gate that needed painting.
A child's ball resting in the grass.
Nothing important.
Nothing urgent.
I found comfort in those ordinary details.
For a little while, I was simply Abigail, walking down the street.
I wasn't a mother calculating medical expenses.
I wasn't a woman carrying a winning ticket.
I wasn't someone trying to decide whether her own son had taken advantage of her love.
I was just myself.
When I returned home, I felt calmer.
I made tea and sat at the kitchen table.
The envelope containing the ticket was still in the drawer.
I took it out and placed it beside my cup.
I had begun to understand that I didn't need to make the money disappear from my thoughts in order to make a good decision.
I needed to stop allowing it to answer questions it couldn't answer.
It could help me pay my debts.
It could give me the ability to help Spencer without destroying my own financial security.
It could give me options.
But it couldn't tell me whether I should trust him.
That was something I would have to learn from his actions.
And I couldn't learn it if I refused to acknowledge what I had heard.
I folded the envelope and put it away again.
Then I wrote down another question.
What do I need to know before I make a promise?
I read it twice.
The answer wasn't complicated.
I needed to know what Spencer was asking for.
I needed to understand the actual expenses.
I needed to know what help I could provide without putting myself back into debt.
And I needed to be able to speak honestly about my concerns.
I didn't have to accuse him.
I didn't have to assume every answer would be false.
But I had to allow myself to ask.
I put the pen down.
The room was quiet.
For once, the silence didn't feel like an invitation to worry.
It felt like time I could use.
I could prepare for the conversation I knew I eventually needed to have.
I could decide what I wanted to say.
I could stop expecting myself to find the perfect words before I had even admitted what was wrong.
I had spent so long trying to protect Spencer from fear that I had forgotten fear was something I carried, too.
And I was finally beginning to understand that protecting him could not mean pretending I didn't feel it.
Click here to continue reading: PART 12: I Finally Admitted That the Lottery Had Not Changed My Son or Our Relationship, Only Given Me the Freedom to Stop Making Decisions Out of Desperation
I Thought Twenty Million Dollars Would Finally Give My Son His Life Back, Until I Heard the Conversation Behind His Hospital Door
Part 11 of 20
