My name is Evelyn Marrow. I’m sixty-three.
Mornings in Charleston, South Carolina, have a way of moving slowly, the kind of slow that used to comfort me. The sun takes its time slipping over the harbor, the humidity rises like a quiet tide, and the world on my little side street off King Street usually wakes up in soft noises—distant traffic on the Ravenel Bridge, a dog barking two yards down, the faint clang of dishes from the diner at the corner.
Inside my bungalow, peace had always lived in the small routines.
I liked the quiet hum of the ceiling fan, the soft hiss of the kettle on the gas stove, the scent of chicory coffee drifting through the kitchen like something borrowed from New Orleans and smuggled home in a suitcase.
The linoleum under my bare feet was cool, the morning light coming through the window above the sink fell in wide, gentle stripes across the table.
On that Thursday morning, the kind of sticky, bright morning that only the Lowcountry can make, my son Aaron sat across from me at that table. His shoulders were wrapped in a pressed dress shirt, already squared for battle with the world.
He stirred sugar into his cup like he was measuring something important. The spoon tapped the ceramic in a slow, deliberate rhythm that didn’t match the easy smile on his face.
He smiled in that practiced, careful way he used at work now—the kind of smile that went with quarterly reports and performance reviews, not with birthday cakes and scraped knees.
“Mom,” he said, eyes on the swirl of his coffee, “maybe you should let me handle your money from now on.”
He said it gently, as if he were offering help.
His voice was low, polite, almost tender, with just enough Southern softness to sound kind.
But underneath it, there was something sharp. The kind of tone people use when they’ve already made up their mind and they’re only here to inform you of it.
I nodded slowly, buying time, feeling the familiar Charleston light suddenly grow harsher.
“You think so?” I asked.
He leaned back, confident, one arm thrown over the back of the chair like he owned the room.
“It’ll make things easier for you,” he said. “I’ll set up transfers, pay your bills.
You won’t have to worry about a thing.” He spoke like a man explaining a convenient app to someone who didn’t know how to download it.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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