When the doctor said their mother couldn’t go home alone, her eight children looked at the floor like strangers at a bus station.
I was never the favorite.
That wasn’t bitterness.
That was history.
Still, when I saw my mother trying not to cry in front of the doctor, I felt something inside me break clean in half.
I walked to her bed and took her hand.
It was cold.
Smaller than I remembered.
“Mom,” I said, “you’re coming with me.”
The room went quiet in a different way then.
Not shocked.
Ashamed.
My sister turned fast. “You live in a one-bedroom apartment.”
“I know.”
My brother laughed under his breath. “You work nights at the grocery store.”
“I know.”
“You can’t do this alone,” another one said.
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