When the doctor said their mother couldn’t go home alone, her eight children looked at the floor like strangers at a bus station.
Funny how people become experts in difficulty when they are trying to escape duty.
“I’m not saying it’ll be easy,” I said. “I’m saying she won’t be alone.”
My mother started crying then.
Not loud.
Just those small, painful tears older people cry when they are trying not to be trouble.
She gripped my wrist and whispered, “No, baby. I don’t want to ruin your life.”
That almost destroyed me.
Because after everything they had taken from her, she was still worried about costing too much.
I bent down and held her as carefully as I could.
“You didn’t ruin mine,” I said. “You gave me one.”
My oldest brother stared at the wall.
My sister suddenly became very interested in her phone.
One by one, they began speaking again, softer this time, dressing guilt up as practicality.
“We’ll all pitch in.”
“We can make a schedule.”
“Maybe a nurse could come sometimes.”
But the promises came too late.
Everybody wants to be a good son or daughter once someone else volunteers to do the hard part.
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