I was so wrong.
We settled Etta into the guest room, quiet, cozy, close to everything she might need. From day one she kept apologizing. “Shiloh, I don’t want to be any trouble,” she’d whisper, squeezing my hand. I’d squeeze back harder. “You could never be trouble. You’re my mom.”
She slipped into our days so gently. Even exhausted from treatment, she’d fold laundry I’d left in the basket or sweep the porch when she thought I wasn’t looking. I’d find her and guide her back to the couch. “Mom, your only job is to rest and heal.”
Then one morning I had to leave town for work, just twenty-four hours. I sat on the edge of her bed, brushed the hair from her forehead, and promised I’d be back by lunch the next day. She smiled, tired but warm. “I’ll be fine, sweetheart. Ward’s here. Go do what you need to do.”
I kissed her goodbye, told myself it was only one night, and left.
The next day I wrapped up early and decided to surprise her. I even stopped at the bakery she loved. I walked in quietly, bags in hand, smiling at the thought of her face.
Instead I found her in the hallway, on a thin mattress thrown straight onto the hardwood floor, shivering under a single blanket.
I dropped everything and knelt beside her. “Mom?” My voice cracked. “Mom, what are you doing here?”
She blinked awake, eyes cloudy. “Ward said the rooms all had mold. Said they were being treated and I couldn’t sleep in any of them. Just for one night, he told me. I didn’t want to bother anyone.”
Mold? Every room? The house had been perfectly clean when I left. And he’d acted completely normal on the phone the night before.
