My son-in-law placed a sheet of notebook paper on the kitchen table. One number was written in the middle, circled twice.
$800.
“That covers rent, utilities, and your share of the groceries,” my daughter, Michelle, explained. “You would also help with the children four days a week. It would make things easier for everyone, Mom.”
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.
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.
“Could I see the basement?” I asked.
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.
“Grandma, are you going to live in the under?” my four-year-old granddaughter, Sadie, asked.
“We’ll see, sweetheart,” I answered with a smile.
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.
I had spent most of my life living under someone else’s 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.
