When the doctor said their mother couldn’t go home alone, her eight children looked at the floor like strangers at a bus station.
“Your mother needs round-the-clock care,” the doctor said. “If no one steps in, you’ll need to find a long-term facility.”
Nobody answered.
My mother, Evelyn, kept smiling at first.
It was that proud kind of smile older mothers wear when they still believe love will rise on command.
She looked from one child to the next like she had spent her whole life preparing for this moment.
Eight children.
Eight Christmas stockings she had filled by hand.
Eight lunchboxes.
Eight birthdays.
Eight people she had once called her greatest blessing.
My oldest brother cleared his throat first.
“Mom, you know I’d do anything, but we’re barely making the mortgage.”
My sister folded her arms and looked at her watch.
“I’m supposed to leave for Arizona on Friday. This trip has been planned for months.”
Another brother sighed like he was the real victim.
“My job is hanging by a thread. If I disappear now, I’m done.”
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