Russell came and went like a resentful tenant who complained that the shower pressure was bad and that the house smelled too much like medicine.
He wanted dinner waiting and a television remote within reach, as if my grief were something impolite that I was tracking in on my shoes.
His parents were even worse because they visited twice and managed to make both visits feel like they were conducting an official inspection.
Brenda walked through the house with a look of disgust and Don stood in the kitchen complaining that the property had no resale value while my mother sat only ten feet away.
At night, I would sit at the kitchen table and write down medication times while realizing that I was completely alone in my marriage.
The last winter of my mother’s life was the hardest because she deteriorated in steps and eventually could no longer manage the stairs.
“I am so sorry that I am such a burden and that you have to see me this way,” she whispered one evening.
I sat on the edge of her bed and told her that she was my mother and that she should never apologize for needing me.