My building’s elevator only worked when it felt like it, and the neighbor who usually checked on me was out of town. I wasn’t going to pretend I was stronger than I was just to protect my pride.
I called Daniel before I left, but he never answered. I told myself that once he saw me there—my slow walk, my bare face, the pharmacy bag—any decent son would say, “Come in, Mom. Stay a few days.” I wasn’t asking for forever. I wasn’t moving in. I wasn’t trying to become a burden. Just one week. Seven nights. A little warm soup, a bed, and the reassurance that if the pain got worse, someone would hear me.
I rang the bell. They took their time.
When the door finally opened, Daniel stood there in a gray T-shirt and jeans, wearing that expression I knew too well from his younger years—the one he used whenever something irritated him and he didn’t even bother hiding it. Behind him, deeper inside the house, I saw Rebecca near the kitchen island with a glass of wine in her hand. She didn’t come forward.
She didn’t say hello. She didn’t invite me in. There was not a trace of surprise on her face, as if they had both already expected this moment: me showing up in need.