Then everything shattered. Mom was diagnosed with can.cer. She started chemo, and anyone who’s watched someone go through that knows how brutal it is.
I wanted to be the person she could lean on. I wanted her close, safe, cared for. So I told Ward I was bringing her to live with us for a while.
For context: Ward and Etta never got along. They weren’t openly hostile, but there was always tension. Etta is one of the gentlest souls I know. She remembers birthdays, listens without judging, gives without keeping score. Ward, for reasons he never fully explained, always kept her at a distance. The feeling was mutual.
They disagreed on everything: holidays, parenting, politics. Etta thought he was arrogant. Ward thought she was nosy. Still, they stayed polite across the dinner table, mostly for Dove’s sake. My daughter adored her grandmother and would light up the second Etta walked through the door.
When the diagnosis came, it felt like the ground disappeared beneath me. Etta and I have always been close. The idea of watching her suffer tore me apart.
The doctor was clear: chemo would leave her weak, confused, sometimes unable to care for herself. She needed someone there, every single day.
I didn’t think twice. I told her to move in with us. I offered the guest room or even Dove’s old room, anything to make her feel at home and loved.
Ward didn’t fight me on it. I took his silence as agreement. I thought compassion would win over old grudges.
