Claire closed her eyes, counted to three, and put on her ‘Patient Caregiver’ mask. “Coming, Doris!”
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She walked into the living room. Doris was slumped in her medical recliner, a specialized chair that cost $3,000 and was supposedly essential for her ‘degenerative hip condition.’ Doris was sixty-five but acted ninety. Her hair was thin and wild, her eyes glazed over with the vacancy of dementia—or so the doctors suspected, though the diagnosis remained frustratingly vague.
“Who are you?” Doris croaked, spilling a spoonful of oatmeal down her chin and onto the expensive bib Claire had bought.
“It’s Claire, Doris. Your daughter-in-law,” Claire said gently, grabbing a wet wipe. She dabbed at the woman’s face. “Ethan’s wife.”
“Ethan?” Doris blinked. “Is he a doctor?”
