The Drawer
I have stage-three cancer and maybe a year to live. My son is a meth addict. Every Tuesday for three years I have put $340 in a kitchen drawer. Last Friday I didn’t. I don’t know if this makes me a good mother or if I just killed him.
The oncologist used a word I recognized: terminal.
Stage three breast cancer. Metastasized. Lymph nodes. Five-year survival rate 72 percent.
I am a librarian. I translated: one year.
My first thought was about the drawer.
Every two weeks for three years: $340 in the drawer.
Every two weeks my son takes it.
We both know what it’s for. We say it’s for rent.
When Marcus was seven I bought him a bicycle. Two hundred dollars. My husband Troy said let him earn it. I bought it the next day.
When Marcus was twelve he quit football. Too hot. Troy said finish the season. I let him quit.
When Marcus was sixteen Troy found marijuana. Wanted drug tests. I grounded him two weeks. No tests. He kept the car.
By eighteen there were two systems in the house. Troy’s four kids from previous marriages had rules. Marcus had me.
He barely graduated. Missed 47 days. I called the school weekly. Made excuses. He walked and I bought him a car.
The drugs: marijuana, cocaine, methamphetamine.
Troy said rehab. I gave Marcus three thousand dollars for a fresh start. He used it in six weeks.
This was the pattern.
Marcus’s girlfriend Emma got pregnant in 2021. Twins.
The babies were born November 12. The nurse pulled me aside.
“The babies tested positive for methamphetamine.”
I convinced CPS to let them go home. I would monitor. I was a librarian. Responsible. I would keep them safe.
I lied to the State of Nebraska.
The drawer started then. $340 every two weeks. For rent. For the babies.
I knew where it went.
Six months ago Troy found the bank statements.
He sat. Put the statements in front of me. Said nothing.
“How long?”
“Three years.”
“How much?”
“Twenty-six thousand.”
He put his head in his hands.
“You have cancer,” he said. His eyes were wet. “Stage three. You should have retired. Instead you’re working yourself to death to give money to a thirty-four-year-old man who buys drugs with it.”
“It’s for rent. For the babies.”
“The babies are in Iowa. Have been for two months.”
I said nothing.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Troy said. “I’ve watched you choose him for thirty years. Over me. Over us. Over everything. You have to choose. Him or me.”
I chose the drawer.
Not out loud. But by not choosing Troy I chose the drawer.
Troy moved to the guest room.
Friday
Lunch break. I sat with my purse. My wallet. My ATM card.
The bank was three blocks away. $340. Twenty minutes.
12:17.
I thought about Marcus. Skeletal. 130 pounds. Hands shaking.
I thought about the babies born poisoned.
I thought about Troy in the guest room.
I thought about terminal.
12:23.
I picked up my purse. Put it down.
My hands were shaking. Withdrawal. Not from drugs.
12:31.
I could go. One more time. One more week to figure this out.
To die still doing this.
12:47.
I put my purse in my locker. Went back to work.
Troy was making dinner when I got home. He looked at my hands.
“You didn’t go.”
“I didn’t go.”
He came to me. Held me while I cried.
Tuesday
I made pot roast. Six o’clock. Troy stayed home. His hand on my shoulder.
7:15. Headlights.
Marcus sat in his car eleven minutes.
When he came to the door I opened it.
“I made pot roast.”
“Can’t stay.”
“Sit down.”
His face changed. “What’s wrong?”
“Sit down.”
Troy moved to the living room.
Marcus sat. His eyes went to the drawer.
“There’s no money in the drawer.”
Silence.
“What?”
“I didn’t put money there. I’m not going to anymore.”
“But the boys…”
“The boys are in Iowa. This was never about the boys.”
His face: anger, panic, relief.
“Mom, I need…”
“You need to learn to take care of yourself. I’ve spent thirty-four years making sure you never had to.”
“That’s not…”
“I bought the bike when you were seven. Let you quit football at twelve. Gave you the car at sixteen. Five thousand dollars at eighteen. Three thousand at twenty-five. Everything. It hasn’t helped. It’s hurt you.”
Tears on his face.
“I’m dying. I have maybe a year. I don’t want to spend it killing both of us.”
“So you’re giving up on me?”
“I’m loving you the right way. By letting you fall.”
“I can’t do this alone.”
“Yes you can. You don’t want to.”
Marcus stood. His whole body shaking.
“You’re my mother.”
“I’ve been helping you die for thirty-four years. I’m done.”
He stared at me.
“Fuck you.”
He left.
Troy came back. Arms around me.
“You did the right thing.”
“Then why does it feel like I killed him?”
Wednesday
2:47 p.m. Troy called.
“He’s here. On the porch. Not good.”
Marcus was sitting on the steps when I got there.
“There’s no money in the drawer,” he said.
“I know.”
“I checked yesterday. Nothing.”
“I know.”
“Is this because Troy…”
“This is me.”
He stood. Started pacing. Keys rattling.
“Mom, I need it. I really need it.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t understand. I NEED it. I’m sick. Please. Please, Mom. Just this once. I’ll pay you back. I swear.”
“I can’t.”
“You can! You have money. It’s $340. That’s nothing.”
“It’s not about money.”
“Then what? You’re punishing me?”
“I’m dying. I have a year. I need to know I gave you a chance.”
“You give me a chance by giving me money!”
“No. That’s how I’ve been killing you.”
He stopped. His face doing something new.
“So you’re done? Just like that?”
“I should have been done thirty years ago.”
“Fuck you.” But he didn’t leave. “You can’t just stop.”
“I have to.”
“Why now?”
“Because I’m out of time. So are you.”
He sat hard on the steps. Head in his hands.
We sat. Minutes. Hours.
“I don’t know how to stop,” he said.
“I know.”
“I’ve tried. I can’t…”
“Then get help. Real help. There’s rehab in Omaha…”
“I can’t afford rehab.”
“I’ll pay for rehab. But not for this.”
He looked at me. Eyes red. Hollow.
“What if I don’t get back up?”
“Then we tried. That’s more than thirty-four years of nothing.”
He left. Walking. I watched him turn the corner.
Troy came out.
“You okay?”
“No.”
Two weeks. No calls.
I picked up the phone seventeen times. Didn’t dial.
I thought: dead in some apartment.
Troy said no news is good news.
I said or he’s dead.
David called. Troy’s son. Denver.
“I heard what you did.”
“Troy told you?”
“I wanted to say it took courage.”
“Doesn’t feel like courage.”
“What’s it feel like?”
“Like I murdered my child.”
Silence.
“You know what Jennifer said?”
“What?”
“She said good. Maybe now he’ll try.”
“She’s angry.”
“She’s been angry twenty years. We all have. You think we didn’t see it? How you treated him different?”
I said nothing.
“What you’re doing now? First time you’ve treated him like he’s capable.”
“What if it’s too late?”
“Then it’s too late. But you tried.”
Emma’s sister called Thursday.
“He’s here.”
My heart stopped. “Is he…”
“Alive. A mess. But alive. Showed up three days ago. Asked to see the boys.”
“Did you let him?”
“No. He was high.”
“Where is he?”
“My couch. Sleeping eighteen hours. Coming down.”
“Can I talk to him?”
“He doesn’t want to talk to you. Said you gave up on him.”
That hurt.
“There’s a rehab here. Des Moines. Eight thousand for thirty days.”
“I’ll pay.”
“He has to want to go.”
“Does he?”
“Don’t know. He says he needs to get his shit together. See his boys.”
“Tell him I’ll pay. But he stays thirty days.”
“And if he leaves?”
“I’m done.”
Three days later he called.
“Mom?”
I started crying.
“I’m here.”
“I’m going to rehab. Des Moines.”
“Okay.”
“I need you to pay.”
“I will.”
“I’m staying the whole time.”
“Okay.”
Silence.
“I’m sorry. For the fuck you.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know if this will work.”
“You don’t have to know. Just try.”
“What if I fuck it up?”
“Then you fuck it up. But you tried.”
Pause.
“Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m scared.”
“Me too.”
Day three he called.
“I hate it here.”
“I know.”
“Everyone’s broken. They make us talk about feelings.”
“You’re doing it now.”
“This is different. You’re my mom.”
“I’m choosing to listen.”
Quiet.
“They asked why I use. I said I don’t know. They said that’s bullshit.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Told them to fuck off.”
“Marcus.”
“I don’t know how to talk about this.”
“About what?”
“You. My childhood. Whether I felt loved.”
My chest hurt. “What did you say?”
“I said yes. You loved me too much. They asked what that meant. I said you gave me everything. They asked if that’s the same as love.”
I couldn’t speak.
“Is it?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I thought it was.”
“Me too.”
Day seven.
“I’m leaving.”
“No.”
“I am. I can’t do this. They want me to talk about trauma. I don’t have trauma. Good childhood.”
“That’s the problem. I gave you everything. Never taught you to do hard things. Now you’re thirty-four and you don’t know how to sit with discomfort.”
“So my fault?”
“Both our faults. I made you soft.”
“I don’t want to be hard.”
“You won’t feel okay for a long time. That’s what sober is.”
“How long?”
“Longer than seven days.”
Silence.
“What if I can’t?”
“You can.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I believe it anyway.”
Long pause.
“I’ll try to stay.”
“That’s all I ask.”
Day twelve. Emma’s sister called.
“He’s gone. Left last night.”
The room spun.
“Where?”
“Don’t know. Not answering.”
I sat for an hour. Troy found me.
“He left rehab.”
Troy sat.
“I killed him. I finally did it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“He’s out there and he’s going to use and die and it’s my fault.”
“He was dying anyway. Just slower.”
“But he was alive!”
Crying. The ugly kind.
“I don’t know how to do this.”
“You’re doing it now.”
“It hurts.”
“I know.”
Four days later Marcus called.
“I’m back.”
“Back where?”
“Rehab. I left. Got high. Felt terrible. Like dying. Thought about the boys. You. How I’ve spent my whole life running.”
I couldn’t speak.
“I called. Asked if I could come back. They said yes.”
“How many days left?”
“Eighteen. Starting over.”
“Okay.”
“I’m doing it this time. All eighteen.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t know if it’ll work. But I’ll try.”
He stayed.
Eighteen days. Halfway house. Three months Iowa. Six.
He calls every Tuesday. 7:15. The time he used to come to my house.
Now he tells me about his warehouse job. AA meetings. The boys. How Marcus asked if he could stay for dinner. Chicken nuggets. The best meal he’d ever had.
I stopped chemo last month. Not working.
Troy and I are planning my funeral.
Marcus asked to speak.
“What will you say?”
“That you were a terrible mother who loved me wrong for thirty-four years. Then you were a good mother for six months when you let me fail.”
“Not a nice eulogy.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Are you angry?”
Long pause.
“Yeah. Angry you gave me everything and fucked me up. Angry you never taught me to be strong. Angry it took you dying to say no.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know. I’m angry anyway. My therapist says I can be both. Angry and grateful.”
“Grateful?”
“Yeah. Grateful you stopped. Grateful I have to try now.”
“Are you sober?”
“Yeah. 183 days.”
“I’m proud.”
“Don’t be proud yet. Check back in a year.”
“I won’t be here in a year.”
Silence.
“I know,” he said. “That’s fucked up.”
“Yeah.”
“I wish you could see it. If I make it.”
“Me too.”
I have maybe a month.
Marcus is coming next week. The boys. Troy’s making Thanksgiving. All the kids coming.
We’ll sit and pretend I’m not dying. Pretend Marcus isn’t an addict with 197 days. Pretend we’re normal.
We’re not normal.
Marcus asked yesterday if I have regrets.
“The bike at seven. Letting you quit football. Giving money instead of teaching you to earn it. Choosing you over Troy for thirty years. All of it.”
“Do you regret stopping? The drawer?”
“No. Only thing I don’t regret.”
“What if I fuck it up after you die?”
“Then fuck it up. But it won’t be because I enabled you. It’ll be because you chose to.”
“That’s scary.”
“I know. That’s the point.”
I don’t know how this ends.
I’ll be dead before it ends.
Marcus might stay sober. A year. Five years. Might tell this story at his son’s graduation.
Or he might use next week. Overdose. Die six months after me.
I don’t know.
What I know: thirty-four years putting money in a drawer. Six months leaving it empty.
Thirty-four years teaching him the world would give him everything.
Six months teaching him it wouldn’t.
I don’t know which lesson he’ll remember.
The drawer is empty.
I’m dying.
Marcus has 197 days.
That’s all I have to give him.
An empty drawer.
And the space to fall or fly on his own.
END
If this resonated with you, consider supporting this work.
These pieces take time,the writing, the rewriting, the sitting with difficult truths until they’re honest. Paid subscriptions make it possible for me to keep showing up and telling stories that don’t have easy answers.
Paid subscribers get everything: all posts, subscriber-only essays, and the occasional look behind the curtain at what I’m working on.
If a paid subscription isn’t in the budget right now, that’s completely fine. The free newsletter will always be here. But if you’re able, your support means more than you know.
Let's take a minute and think about Walker's words.
"The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don't have any."
— Alice Walker
https://thistleandmoss.com/p/the-week-is-continuing-to-indeed-suck-trump-take-nobel-trump-invoke-insurrection-gop-laughs
I pray America has enough people brave enough to face what's coming head on and try their best do the right thing. Even when it's not enough, especially when it's not enough.