The word sick made me shift uncomfortably. I nodded and agreed, relieved she wasn’t asking for more. Relieved she was making it easy for me.
The day she left, she walked out slowly, carrying nothing but a small, worn bag and that green potted plant she’d watered every morning for years. I didn’t help her to the car. I told myself she was strong enough. I told myself I’d visit soon.
I didn’t.
Life filled the space she left behind. The kids spread out into new rooms. The house felt louder, fuller—and strangely hollow. Sometimes I noticed the empty corner where her chair used to be, or caught myself listening for the soft clink of her teacup in the evening. I pushed those thoughts away. Guilt was inconvenient.
Forty days later, my phone rang.
The nursing home.
They spoke gently, professionally, as if trying to cushion the words. My mother had passed away in her sleep early that morning.
