My daughter asked me to look after her mother-in-law, who was in a coma, while she went on vacation. Her mother-in-law opened her eyes and said, “Call the police.”

“Mom… I need a favor,” she said, her voice breaking before she could finish.

I didn’t ask questions. I pulled her into my arms.

Lauren had always been my pride. Thirty-two years old. A lawyer. Smart, composed, the kind of woman people trusted without even realizing it. She had been married for four years to Ethan Whitaker, an architect with quiet manners and a polite smile that never quite reached his eyes. His mother, Dorothy Whitaker, was a refined widow who lived in an old house in Hyde Park and owned two rental apartments downtown.

We sat at the kitchen table. Lauren wrapped her hands around a mug of coffee, but didn’t drink it right away. She took a breath, then another, like she was steadying herself before stepping off a cliff.

“Dorothy fell six weeks ago,” she said. “She’s still in a coma. The doctors… they don’t know if she’s going to wake up.”

I listened quietly.

She explained that she and Ethan had to leave for Madrid. A work opportunity they couldn’t refuse. The private nurse had just quit. They needed someone—just for two weeks—to stay at the hospital and take care of Dorothy.

“Please, Mom,” she said. “I don’t know who else to ask.”

I agreed before she even finished.