At night, after my mother slept, I sat at the kitchen table writing down medical schedules and bills. One night I scribbled something in the margin of my notebook without thinking.
I am alone in my marriage.
I tore the page up, but it was true.
My mother’s last winter was the hardest. Her body weakened, and she apologized constantly.
“Sorry I’m so much trouble.”
“You’re not trouble,” I told her. “You’re my mother.”
Once she held my wrist and said softly, “Don’t let anyone make you small just because you know how to endure.”
At the time I thought the medication made her confused.
Later I realized she had never been clearer.
She died five days after being admitted to the hospital.
My children were there. My brother too.
Mark was technically present, but emotionally absent.
At the funeral home, while I chose a casket, Mark stood laughing with his parents over something on a phone. During the visitation he refused to sit with the family.
“I’m not blood,” he said.
His mother added, “It’s more appropriate.”
Appropriate.
After the burial everyone returned to my mother’s house for food. I served tea to Mark’s parents because that was the kind of woman I was then.