We proudly told our children and neighbors we didn’t need any help.
But behind closed doors, we were terrified.
Terrified of losing our homes. Terrified of corporate-owned nursing facilities. Terrified of becoming a financial burden to our busy children.
So we made a pact.
Every night at exactly 8:00 PM, one of us called the other. Just two rings.
“Still kicking?” I’d ask.
“Unfortunately for the IRS, yes,” she’d laugh.
Tonight, my phone never rang.
At 8:15, I had grabbed my keys, practically sprinting two blocks down the dark, empty street in my slippers.
The neighbor boy—a college student who sometimes mowed Betty’s lawn—saw me pounding frantically on her front window.
He ran over and used the spare key we kept hidden in a fake rock by the porch.
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