Most of the year, my children were too wrapped up in their own lives to call me. Christmas was usually the one time I could count on hearing from them. But this year was different. This year, my son discovered that I worked as a cleaner in a store—and after that, the phone stopped ringing. I was certain I’d be spending the holidays alone… until a knock on my door changed everything.
That afternoon at work, I was doing what I always did—pushing my broom slowly down the aisles of the furniture store—when I suddenly froze. My hands tightened around the handle as I stared at the man who had just walked in.
It was my son.
Matthew stood there, staring straight at me. His eyes were wide, his face drained of color, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. For a moment, neither of us moved. Then, out of habit, I smiled and took a step toward him.
Before I could speak, he turned around and rushed out of the store.
I stood there in shock.
His reaction cut deeper than I expected. Matthew had always been close to me. But I tried to calm myself, reminding myself that people change as they grow older. Still shaken, I returned to my work, telling myself I’d talk to him later.
Ten years earlier, after my husband passed away, my children—Matthew and Marina—suggested selling our large family home. They said it would be easier for me to manage a smaller apartment and asked if they could use the remaining money to start their own businesses.
I agreed immediately.
Their ventures eventually succeeded, and soon they were so busy that phone calls became rare. As the holidays approached, I faced a hard truth: my retirement savings weren’t enough. Not enough to live comfortably, and certainly not enough to buy gifts for my children and grandchildren.
So at sixty-five, I took a job as a cleaner at a furniture store in the mall.
The work was manageable, and I was still healthy. With the extra income, I could cover my bills and buy Christmas presents. I was proud of that. But I didn’t tell my children. I was afraid of how they’d see me.
After Matthew ran out of the store, staying silent felt safer. Still, I couldn’t leave things unsettled, so that evening I called him.
“I’m sorry, Mother. I’m busy. Can I call you later?” he said.
My heart sank.
“But, sweetheart. About today—” I tried.
“Bye, Mother,” he said firmly, and the call ended.
I didn’t understand his reaction. There was nothing shameful about honest work. Confused and hurt, I called my daughter.
“Mom, I’m busy. I’ll call you later,” Marina said, hanging up before I could explain.
“It’s fine,” I told myself. “I’ll see them at Christmas and explain everything.”
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