I stood in the kitchen staring at him, realizing he was talking about my dying mother like she was an inconvenience.
“If it’s easier,” I said carefully, “I can stay there most nights.”
He laughed.
“And who’s going to cook? Clean? Do laundry? Me?”
That single sentence showed me exactly who he was.
Still, I swallowed my anger. My mother needed me more than I needed to win arguments.
“I’ll manage,” I said.
He leaned back and shrugged.
“Fine. But I’m not getting involved.”
I thanked him.
I hate that I thanked him.
The following year blurred into hospital visits, medication schedules, insurance calls, and quiet nights beside my mother’s bed. I learned which foods she could keep down, how to help her walk when she became weak, how to smile for her even when I wanted to cry.
Mark drifted in and out of the house like a resentful guest. He complained about the drive, about the smell of medicine, about the television being too loud. His parents were worse. When they visited, they inspected the house like it was a cheap hotel.
“This place has no resale value,” his father said once while my mother sat ten feet away.
Mark never defended me.