When I arrived at the apartment in downtown Chicago, I rang the bell and waited. Victor opened the door, and behind him stood Brooke in a silk robe, frozen mid-motion with a spoon in her hand as if reality had interrupted a scene she never expected to face.
I rolled Diane inside, adjusted her blanket, placed her bag on the table, and took a breath before speaking. “She is your mother, and I have taken care of her for seven years, which is more than enough.”
Victor’s face tightened as he said, “What are you doing, you cannot just bring her here,” and I answered calmly, “Actually, I can, because she belongs here more than I do.”
Brooke looked confused and uneasy as she asked him, “You told me your mother was in assisted care,” and I saw the moment her version of him began to crack.
I opened the bag and laid out everything with care while explaining each detail of Diane’s routine, from medications to feeding instructions to the importance of turning her every few hours. Brooke’s face turned pale as she realized the life she had stepped into came with responsibilities no one had warned her about.