Mom listened quietly until the end.
"Understood," she said. "I'm on my way."
Grandpa and Grandma Abbott's remains had already been cremated.
Two small boxes, side by side on a shelf.
Mom touched them gently.
"No more fear," she whispered. "No more pain."
On the way home, she bought a bouquet of white chrysanthemums. She arranged them in the vase that had sat empty for a long time.
Dad finally came back.
Reeking of liquor.
"All taken care of?" he asked.
Mom was ironing clothes. Steam billowed up, veiling her face.
"All taken care of."
Dad nodded, satisfied.
His gaze caught the cake on the table.
"What's this?"
"Try some." Mom cut him a slice. "Just learned how."
Dad took a bite and frowned.
"Too sweet."
"Is it?" Mom tasted a piece herself. "I think it's just right."
She ate slowly. Every bite chewed with deliberate care. Like she was savoring something precious.
Dad went upstairs to sleep.
Mom sat in the dark.
Moonlight fell across the cake in her hands.
She pressed her palm to her mouth.
Her shoulders shook violently.
But she didn't make a sound.
She didn't go upstairs until nearly dawn.
She sat at the edge of my bed for a while. Her hand brushed through my hair, feather-light.