My brother refused to pay a single penny for our mom’s care, but at her funeral, he lied to the entire room and claimed he paid for everything. He didn’t know Mom recorded every single lie.
The kitchen light flickered above me as I sorted Mom’s evening pills on the scratched countertop. My five-month-old son rested on my hip while Mark worked another double shift to help us stay afloat.
From the next room came Mom’s labored breathing, slow and raspy in the otherwise quiet house.
“Em, honey,” she called softly. “Is that you?”
“Coming, Mom.”
I shifted the baby to my other shoulder and picked up the small paper cup of water and the handful of pills.
“Is that you?”
My mom, Margaret, looked smaller than she had last week. The disease was physically erasing her, leaving only a thin shadow of the once strong, fierce woman who had raised us.
“Thank you, sweetheart.” Mom swallowed the pills, then looked up at me. “I’m sorry, Em. I hope you know that.”
“Mom, don’t. You need to rest.”
“I mean it. For everything, Emily. For every mistake I made when things were different.”
I sat on the very edge of her mattress.
Mom looked at me. “Did Daniel call back? Did he text?”
The disease was physically erasing her.
Mom had chosen my brother, Daniel, over me for as long as I could remember. Even now, after three years of leaving me to handle everything alone, he was still the son she wanted to see.
“Please ask Daniel to come,” she said quietly. “I don’t want to be a burden to you.”
“Not yet, Mom. He’s probably in a meeting.”
She stared toward the dark window.
“What day is it, sweetheart? I keep losing…”
The thought slipped away before she could finish it.
“What day is it, sweetheart?”
“Call him again, sweetheart. Right now. Please.”
I forced a smile.
That smile had become my mask, my armor against the world.
“I’ll call him, Mom.”
In the dim hallway, I pressed my forehead against the wall and dialed my brother’s number.
I already knew exactly how the conversation would go. I knew every line by heart, but I dutifully waited as the phone on the other end emitted long, indifferent rings.
“Call him again.”
Daniel lived only twenty minutes away.
He had a huge house, two luxury cars, and a wife, Vanessa, who posted glossy vacation photos every single month. They had everything. Except for a spare half-hour for their dying mother.
Daniel picked up on the fourth ring. His voice was sharp and annoyed.
“Emily. What now?”
“Mom’s begging you to come by. Just for half an hour. It means everything to her.”
He had a huge house, two luxury cars, and a wife.
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