My parents were hard workers who made sure every dollar had a purpose. My brother moved away for work, so I was the one who stayed close. I was the one who brought groceries, checked the furnace, and noticed when my father began to look older in a way that had nothing to do with his gray hair.
Then, one winter afternoon, he died.
It happened in an instant. An icy road, a crash, and a doctor’s mouth moving while my mind stalled somewhere between “he had an accident” and “we did everything we could.” My father was only 68. He was supposed to have more time.
My mother folded in on herself after that. She didn’t do it loudly; she just began to disappear by inches. She would sit at the kitchen table with a cold cup of tea, staring at his empty chair. She stopped eating. She said food felt “heavy.” My brother and I thought it was just grief.
Three weeks later, she looked like someone the wind could blow away. I took her to the hospital.
