December 25th (Christmas): Mom had a total break. She cried all day because her ‘successful son’ didn’t call until 8 PM. By then, she was too confused to speak. I played an old voicemail of his on a loop just to get her to eat a few spoonfuls of soup. I ate a cold sandwich on the floor by her bed so she wouldn’t be scared.
January 15th: My back gave out today lifting her from the bath. Doctor says I have a herniated disc, but I can’t take the time off to get surgery. Who would watch her? Just took extra Tylenol and kept going.
I closed the notebook. A lump formed in my throat, hard and painful. I couldn’t swallow.
David looked me dead in the eye.
“You sent $2,000 a month, Michael. And I appreciate that. Truly. But while you were sending checks, you were sleeping eight hours a night.”
He pointed a shaking finger at me.
“You had weekends off. You had vacations in Europe. You went to happy hours. You had a life.”
He slammed his hand on his own chest.
“I haven’t slept a full night in four years. I lost my fiancée because I could never leave the house for a date. I quit my engineering career so Mom wouldn’t have to go to a state nursing home where they’d strap her down. You sent money to ‘fix problems,’ but money doesn’t clean up diarrhea at 3 AM, Michael. Money doesn’t endure the insults of a mind eaten by dementia. Money doesn’t hold her while she shakes in terror because she sees ghosts in the corner of the room.”
He leaned in, his voice quiet but shaking with years of suppressed rage.
