My mom held me through the worst of it. She died five years ago, still insisting Michael and I could have a beautiful life even if it looked different from the one we’d planned.
I’d made peace with it. Mostly.
***
My phone buzzed against the concrete. Michael.
« Hey, plumber girl, » he said. « How’s the patient? »
She died five years ago.
« Terminal. I’m Googling last rites. »
My husband laughed, but it was a beat short.
« This trip is dragging on. »
« I’m sorry. Which hotel are you staying at? I’ll send snacks and moral support. »
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