After I told my six children that my health was declining, they all rushed home, suddenly acting like the close-knit family I had been longing for. But late one night, I overheard them arguing over who would inherit my house once I died — so the following morning, I invited every one of them to dinner because I had a lesson to teach that none of them would ever forget.
I raised all six of my children by myself after my husband passed away far too young.
Daniel had been 12 when we buried his father. Carol was ten. Michael was eight. Lisa was six. Thomas was four. Ben was still tiny enough to crawl into my lap and fall asleep there with his little fist tangled in my sweater.
I worked endless double shifts, skipped holidays, and sacrificed anything extra so my children would never go without.
I was exhausted most days. But our home overflowed with life.
Then the children grew older.
In the beginning, they still came by often, called regularly, and spent every holiday at home with me.
