My son-in-law placed a sheet of notebook paper on the kitchen table. One number was written in the middle, circled twice.<\/p>\n
$800.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat covers rent, utilities, and your share of the groceries,\u201d my daughter, Michelle, explained. \u201cYou would also help with the children four days a week. It would make things easier for everyone, Mom.\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked at the paper and then at my daughter. I was sixty-seven years old, and my monthly Social Security income was $1,640. After paying $800, I would have $840 left for car insurance, medical expenses, fuel, and everything else.<\/p>\n
The arrangement was meant to help both sides. Michelle and her husband needed financial relief and help with childcare, while I needed somewhere to live. Yet something about the proposal made me uncomfortable. I wanted to be close to my grandchildren, but I also wanted a home where I could make my own decisions.<\/p>\n
\u201cCould I see the basement?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
Michelle led me downstairs. They had placed a bed, a small lamp, and a carpet over the concrete floor. A dehumidifier hummed in the corner, and the only window sat high on the wall. The bathroom was upstairs, thirteen steps away.<\/p>\n
\u201cGrandma, are you going to live in the under?\u201d my four-year-old granddaughter, Sadie, asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019ll see, sweetheart,\u201d I answered with a smile.<\/p>\n
Her innocent question stayed with me long after I left. I knew my daughter loved me, and I appreciated the effort she and Todd had made. Still, I wondered whether moving into their basement would change the way we saw one another.<\/p>\n
I had spent most of my life living under someone else\u2019s roof. At nineteen, I married Dale, who worked on a farm south of town. We lived in the small farmhouse provided by his employer, Jim Olson, for thirty-one years. It was a simple home, but it was where we raised our daughter, planted vegetables, celebrated birthdays, and built our family memories.<\/p>\n