As if sleeping on a mattress next to my mother’s room so I could hear her vomiting after treatment was some kind of lucky break.
As if changing my father’s diaper before sunrise was payment enough.
Dad died six months ago.
Mom held on longer than anyone expected.
Last week, she finally let go.
I made the funeral arrangements alone. Picked the flowers alone. Signed the papers alone. Sat alone in the front pew while my brother shook hands like he was running for office and my sister cried loud enough for the whole town to hear.
The neighbors knew the truth.
They had seen me pushing wheelchairs through slush, hauling groceries, carrying oxygen tanks, and standing in pharmacy lines.
So when we got back to the house and my brother clapped his hands and said, “Okay, Emily, let’s talk assets,” something inside me went cold.
“The house should sell fast,” my sister said, scanning the room. “The market’s hot. We split it three ways. You can finally get a small apartment and start over.”
My brother nodded. “I’ll take the clock. Patty wants the jewelry. You can keep the kitchen stuff.”
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