His company had downsized. He’d lost his job. And with two kids in school, a mortgage, and his wife Clare working part-time at a dental office, they were drowning. Bills were piling up. The electricity had almost been shut off. They were eating rice and canned soup for dinner.

When he asked for help, his voice cracked.

“Mom, I hate to ask, but could you help us for a little while, just until I find something steady?”

Of course I said yes. What kind of mother wouldn’t?

My husband had passed away two years before that. He left me his pension and some savings. It wasn’t a fortune, but we’d always lived simply. We didn’t take expensive vacations or buy new cars every few years. We believed in paying off what we owed and putting a little aside for emergencies.

So when Michael needed help, I had it to give.

That first transfer felt good. It felt like I was doing something that mattered. Like even though my husband was gone and my body was slowing down and my house felt too big and too quiet, I still had value. I could still protect my child.