I stayed in our little hometown in Ohio and watched my world disappear one piece at a time.
First Dad’s memory went.
Then Mom got sick.
The last twelve years of my life weren’t spent climbing a career ladder. They were spent crushing pills, cleaning sheets, lifting dead weight, rubbing lotion into paper-thin skin, and waking up at three in the morning because Dad was screaming for his mother even though he was eighty-two.
My twenties vanished under fluorescent kitchen lights.
I lived on coffee, eggs, and whatever was cheapest at the grocery store. My back ached. My hands cracked from bleach and hot water. I missed birthdays, weddings, road trips, dinners, whole seasons of life.
People eventually stopped inviting me.
My siblings showed up twice a year like holiday actors.
They brought expensive scarves Mom was too weak to wear, gadgets Dad couldn’t understand, and giant smiles for photos they posted online with captions about gratitude, family, and blessings.
Then they’d leave before dessert because, as my sister once muttered, “This house smells sad.”
