So, we moved. My mother cried the first night I stayed. “You shouldn’t have to do this,” she said. “You have your own life.”
“You are my life,” I told her.
The next year was a blur of casseroles, pills, and the slow humiliations of illness. I learned how to time nausea meds and which soups she could tolerate. I learned how to smile for her and then sit in the garage with my hands over my mouth so she wouldn’t hear me breaking apart.
Scott came and went like an angry tenant. He complained about the drive, the shower pressure, and the smell of the house. He wanted dinner waiting and the remote in his hand, free of the “impolite” sadness I was tracking in on my shoes.
His parents were worse. They visited twice and acted like they were inspecting a cheap motel. His mother touched a curtain and said, “I suppose it’s roomy.” His father stood in the kitchen and said, “No resale value. You could never stay here long term.”
