She never talked about visitors.
Because none ever came.
One evening, while stirring her tea slowly, she said, “I had a nephew once. Marcus. He stopped coming when he realized I wasn’t going to die quickly. But he’ll return the second he hears I’m gone. People are like that, Daniel. You’ll learn.”
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“You don’t sound angry,” I said.
Gloria smiled faintly.
“Bitterness is a house I refuse to live in.”
The one thing I never understood about Gloria was the bag.
It was an old canvas hospital bag, faded and fraying at the edges. She carried it everywhere. If a nurse tried to move it, Gloria would calmly reach out and pull it back.
“Is that bag special?” I asked once.
“Everything that matters to me is inside it.”
