She hugged me for exactly three seconds, the kind of hug that’s more for the hugger than the hugged.
“I barely slept,” she announced, like she had just finished a marathon.
I looked at her mascara—perfect. Her nails—fresh. Her coat—expensive-looking without having a logo.
“I’m so glad I could get away,” she said. “It’s been… a lot.”
A lot. Like a weekend away. Like bad traffic.
I didn’t correct her.
I didn’t have the energy to do the kind of math that would explain what “a lot” actually meant. I didn’t have the energy to explain that “a lot” is lifting a grown woman off the bathroom floor at 3:17 AM while she apologizes through sobs because her body betrayed her again.
“A lot” is hearing the word declined from an insurance person who never once saw her face.
“A lot” is smiling while you scrape dried oatmeal off a bowl that used to be filled with Sunday pancakes when your mother still had the strength to stand at a stove.
My brother came that evening. He walked in like someone entering a house he used to own.
