“This house is too much for Mom to manage,” she continued. “Mark and I are in a better position to take over. We have kids, we need the space, and honestly you’ve been here long enough.”
Long enough.
I almost laughed then.
I had been there for eighteen months straight before Dad died. Moved back in when his first round of chemo flattened him and Mom announced she “couldn’t handle medical things.” I handled his pills, his meals, the nausea, the appointments, the late-night panic when his temperature spiked, the insurance fights, the blood pressure logs, the quiet terror in the kitchen when he fell asleep too hard in the recliner and I stood there counting his breaths before touching his shoulder.
Kendra visited twice during treatment, once with flowers and once with a photographer friend because she wanted “nice family pictures while Dad still looked like himself.”
Mark came once and asked whether Dad planned to sell the house after “all this” was over, because mountain properties were appreciating again.
I said none of that.
I just asked, “So that’s the plan?”
My mother’s mouth tightened. “Don’t start with that tone.”
“What tone?”
