When my relationship ended, I moved back in with my mother.
It was supposed to be temporary. Six months, maybe a year. Long enough to save some money and figure out what I was doing next.
A year passed. I looked at apartments sometimes. There was always a reason to wait.
Then my mother had surgery. By the time she recovered, I was paying some of the bills and doing most of the shopping. She liked having me there. I liked being able to help.
Whenever I mentioned moving, she got quiet.
“What am I supposed to do here by myself?”
So I stayed.
A few years ago, someone asked if I ever thought about getting my own place.
“Sure,” I said. “Eventually.”
Later, I realized I’d been saying eventually for twenty-six years.
I’m not sure when I stopped waiting to leave. I’m not sure I ever decided to stay.