He laughed. “And who is going to cook? Clean? Do laundry? Me?”
That was Scott. He wasn’t worried about me or my mother. He was just a man startled by the idea that his own socks might become his responsibility. I wanted to scream. Instead, I did what women of my generation were taught: I softened my own pain to keep the room calm.
“I’ll handle what I can,” I said.
“Fine,” he snapped. “But I’m not helping. Don’t come crying to me about medicine or hospice. I am not getting involved.”
I hate that I thanked him. But when you’re losing your mother, you conserve your energy for the person who is dying. Everything else is just noise.
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