They left me alone with my son’s mother, who hadn’t regained consciousness since the accident, and as soon as their ‘vacation’ flight took off, her eyes broadened and she clutched my wrist. She whispered four words that made me lock the door and check my medication log: ‘Don’t trust my son.’ I looked down the hallway, listening to the steady beeping of the monitor… and realized they weren’t on vacation at all.

“Mom.” James’s voice came through tense and clipped. “I need to ask you for a favor. It’s urgent.”

My heart jumped. James never called unless he needed something. Over the past three years, since my husband, Richard, died, he’d been calling more often. I’d convinced myself he was finally becoming the caring son I’d always wanted.

“What’s wrong, honey?” I set down the hiking boots I’d been about to pack.

“It’s Margaret—Susan’s mother.” He paused, and I heard him take a deep breath. “She’s had some complications. We need to fly to Seattle tonight to meet with a specialist. The doctor says it’s our last chance to find treatment options.”

Margaret Whitmore had been in what doctors called a persistent vegetative state for six months. The accident had been terrible. A semi-truck ran a red light and T-boned Susan’s car. Susan walked away with minor bruises. Margaret ended up with severe brain trauma.

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