My brother refused to pay a single penny for our mom’s care, but at her funeral, he lied to the entire room and claimed he paid for everything. He didn’t know Mom recorded every single lie.
The kitchen light flickered above me as I sorted Mom’s evening pills on the scratched countertop. My five-month-old son rested on my hip while Mark worked another double shift to help us stay afloat.
From the next room came Mom’s labored breathing, slow and raspy in the otherwise quiet house.
“Em, honey,” she called softly.
“Is that you?”
I shifted the baby to my other shoulder and picked up the small paper cup of water and the handful of pills.
My mom, Margaret, looked smaller than she had last week. The disease was physically erasing her, leaving only a thin shadow of the once strong, fierce woman who had raised us.
“Thank you, sweetheart.” Mom swallowed the pills, then looked up at me. “I’m sorry, Em.
I hope you know that.”
“I mean it. For everything, Emily. For every mistake I made when things were different.”
I sat on the very edge of her mattress.
Mom looked at me.
“Did Daniel call back? Did he text?”
