When my grown daughter grabbed my shoulders, pushed me against my own kitchen wall and said, “You are going to a nursing home. Or you can sleep out with the horses. Pick one,” I did not cry.
I am sixty two. I have worked my whole life. I know what it means to sacrifice, to bend, to be quiet, especially in a difficult mother daughter relationship. But in that moment, with my back to the wall and my daughter looking at me like I was nothing more than an inconvenience, something broke inside me. Not my love for her, but my fear of losing her.
