My son calls me at the same time every night and asks, “Are you alone?” If I say yes, he hangs up. If I say no, he insists on knowing who’s with me. Last night, I lied and told him I was alone. I never imagined that would save me.
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The phone rang at exactly 10:47 p.m., as it had every night for the past three months. I was sitting in my late husband’s armchair—the one by the window, overlooking the apple orchard that stretched behind our Vermont farmhouse. The trees were bare now, skeletal fingers reaching toward a November sky. I’d been holding Robert’s reading glasses, turning them over in my hands, wondering why I still kept them on the side table after two years.
“Hello, Albert,” I said, not bothering to check the caller ID. My son’s punctuality was almost pathological.
“Mom.” His voice came through tight, controlled. “Are you alone?”
The question—always the same question. I glanced around the living room: the faded floral sofa Robert and I had bought thirty years ago, the grandfather clock that had belonged to my mother, the wedding photo on the mantle where we both looked impossibly young. The house felt enormous in its emptiness, every room echoing with the absence of the man who’d filled them with his laugh, his presence, his life.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m alone.”
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone in my hand, listening to the silence that followed. This was new. Usually, when I said yes, Albert would launch into a fifteen-minute monologue about proper security, about keeping doors locked, about the dangers of rural isolation for a woman my age. He’d inherited his father’s concern, but none of his warmth. Tonight, just silence and a disconnected call.
I set the phone down, my hand trembling slightly. At sixty-three, I’d learned to trust my instincts, and right now they were screaming that something was wrong. The house settled around me with its familiar creaks and groans. I’d lived here for forty years, raised Albert within these walls, buried my husband from the front parlor. I knew every sound, every draft, every peculiarity—which is why I noticed immediately when the kitchen door handle turned.
I’d locked it. I always locked it after dinner.
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