The oncologist was kind in that brutal way doctors have to be. Advanced cancer. Inoperable. Treatment might buy a year if everything went perfectly. I sat in the parking garage afterward, hands frozen on the steering wheel, unable to start the car. I remember thinking, absurdly, that I hadn’t even finished grieving my father before life came for my mother.
My brother wanted to help, but he lived across the country with a mortgage, kids in school, and a wife caring for her own father. We did the “heartbroken children math” and realized there was no choice: I was the one who could stay.
That night, I told Scott I wanted to move into my mother’s house for a while. He looked at me as if I had suggested adopting a tiger.
“We just got through your dad’s funeral,” he said, his voice sounding rehearsed. “Now you want me dragged into another year of your family’s problems?”
I blinked, stunned by his resistance. “She’s sick, Scott. She can’t be alone.”
