Mom asks son to give her the one experience she never had

That night at dinner, I said, “The kids will be down this weekend.”

“Oh. Really?”

“I told them. They want to come see you, and they said they would get here as much as possible up until … Well, you know.”

Mom smiled. “Bless their hearts.” She took in a big mouthful of the fried pollack, chewed, and swallowed, then said, “What have you decided insofar as sleeping arrangements?”

“I’ll take the room you made for me, Benny can have the spare, and Kaitlyn can sleep with you.” She looked a bit disappointed. “Oh, it’s just for the weekend. Surely your newly resurrected libido can stand a few days without us engaging in wild sex.”

Mom laughed. “I hope so.”

That night, I slept in my room. Mom had gone back to the spare after dinner and just sat amongst Dad’s stuff. I don’t know what was going through her mind, and I never bothered to ask, thinking that whatever it was, she would have to work it out for herself. She was the one who asked me to sleep in my room, and I had no misgivings over doing so.

The following day, Mom and I inventoried her knick-knacks and her jewelry. She was going to allow Kaitlyn to have her pick of each, then Benny, then me, and what was left of the knick-knacks she was going to give to her friend Irene while the remaining jewelry would go to her friend Samantha. That night, after a dinner of cubed steak, mac-n-cheese, and green beans, Mom once again made her way to the guest room where Dad’s stuff was. After about thirty minutes I went in after her. I softly placed a comforting hand on her shoulder and said, “Mom, do you need to talk?”

She looked up at me, smiled, then patted my hand before saying, “Have a seat.” I sat next to her and offered a small smile, prompting her to begin whenever she was ready. After a few minutes of silence, she finally did so: “There’s something I never told you, Johnny. Something about the circumstances of your father’s death. You were only thirteen when he died. For so long I have allowed you to believe that he died from a heart attack when the truth of the matter is that he killed himself.”

“What?”

“It was early onset Alzheimer’s—dementia,” Mom told me. “He used to visit parishioners who had it. He referred to them as ‘The Walking Dead’ on account of they were alive by breathing and beating heart only after mental acumen failed them. With his … He got bad very quickly. He had moments of clarity, and it was during one of these that he killed himself, stating he didn’t want to end up a zombie like the others.” She looked up at me then, tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry I’ve lied to you all these years, Johnny. I was just trying to protect you.”

“I understand,” I said as I took her in my arms. That was quite a revelation, but not one I could be upset at her over. I rocked her for about a minute, then said, “Stay here as long as you like,” before exiting the room.

I turned on the TV and watched a few episodes of Siren on hulu before falling asleep. I awoke a few hours later and made my way down the hall to find Mom had fallen asleep in the spare bedroom. I covered her up and went to my room and crawled into bed. The kids would be here tomorrow. Hopefully that would lighten Mom’s mood some.