I knew which medication had to be taken with food.
I knew which doctor had changed a dosage.
I knew which exercises frustrated Dad and which ones he would actually finish if Dany counted the repetitions for him.
Chelsea had visited the hospital once during the first week.
She took a picture beside Dad’s bed, added a long caption about family strength, and received hundreds of comments calling her an angel.
I was in the hallway during that photograph, arguing with an insurance representative and trying to understand why one part of Dad’s care had not been approved.
No one took my picture.
No one thanked me.
I did the work.
Chelsea received the praise.
That had always been our arrangement, though no one ever said it aloud.
Chelsea was the daughter my mother displayed.
I was the daughter she called when something broke.
If Dad needed a haircut, I arranged it.
