Cursed?

If it's not one thing, it's my mother!

I write this as a mother. 

As the mother!

My son has had a very rough year. Lost his old job, has become an independent contractor facing winter, has a money pit of a house and all sorts of other things.

Today his dog bit the delivery man who reached over the fence with a package. It is a rescue dog he has been working with since they got her and it wasn't a bad bite, but still . . . the dog bit the man.

I feel bad because the delivery man was delivering a package from me.

My son is the epitome of patience, peace and goodwill. He says not to worry.

I am a guilt ridden mother who generally really doesn't worry about too many things. Like why is he late getting home, etc., but this?

I'm starting to worry that whatever comes next might be the last straw. That one straw that is keeping the money pit upright,  amid all its leaks and creaks, ancient pipes and cursed plumbing.

I am imagining opening the bathroom door to find my son stewed in a hot bath of plaster chips and a hundred years of dust, only to hear evil laughing echoing through the halls behind me.

Of course that won't happen.

I don't live there.

But his wife and son do.

With the dog.