Willow Ridge Assisted Living and Recovery Center.
My stomach tightened when we pulled into the parking lot.
“She’s here?”
“She was when your dad last visited.”
I turned sharply.
“He visited her?”
“Every month.”
That hurt in a completely different way.
“How long?”
“Fourteen years.”
I looked away.
Of course he had.
Of course Dad had somehow carried two separate lives on his back without telling either of us how much it cost him.
Inside, the receptionist studied my name.
Then her expression changed.
“You’re Michael?”
“Yes.”
She smiled softly.
“Your mother has talked about this day for years.”
My legs nearly failed beneath me.
The walk to Room 214 felt endless.
At the door, a nurse touched my arm.
“She’s stable. But this will be emotional.”
I nodded.
Then I stepped inside.
A woman sat beside the window.
Gray threaded through her dark hair.
She was thinner than the mother in my memories.
