Something sharp. Something cold. The air felt too clean, as if the house had filtered out every hard thing I’d lived through for them.
Twenty years ago, I was twenty-three and still stupid enough to think love was an investment that always paid back. They called me at work that day. I can still hear my mother’s voice, trembling like a flag in a storm.
“Autoimmune,” she said. “Critical. It’s sudden.
The doctors say no visits—too risky, too many infections.”
Shell’s voice came faint through the phone, weak and brave. “Don’t worry about me, okay? Just… just help Mom and Dad.
That’s all I need.”
I had just started my first real job. I had a husband who believed in plans, and we’d been talking about a baby with the careful excitement of people who want to do things right. But family is a word that can swallow every other word if you let it.
Continue reading…
