The day Tyler left me at the nursing home, he patted my hand like I was a dog being dropped at a kennel. “You’ll be fine, Mom.”
For two years, I wasn’t fine. I wrote letters—283 of them—until my hands ached. Not one was answered.
Then Ron came.
I hadn’t seen him since he was a boy, back when he and Tyler were inseparable. Back when I’d pack extra lunches so Ron wouldn’t go hungry.
Now he stood in the nursing home lobby, holding a bundle of my unopened letters. “Mom,” he said softly, “Tyler’s gone.”
A house fire. A year ago. My letters had been sitting in the mailbox of my empty home all this time.
Ron didn’t make excuses. He didn’t say “I’m busy” or “It’s complicated.” He simply opened his arms. “You’re family. Come home.”
That night, as Ron’s wife tucked me into their guest room, I realized something: family isn’t always blood. Sometimes, it’s the people who show up when no one else does.
