Silver strands of my mother’s hair covered the towel around her shoulders.
“I’m almost finished,” Clara whispered.
Mother squeezed her hand.
“Stop talking to me like I’m five.”
Clara laughed through her tears.
“You’re being terribly difficult.”
And my mother smiled.
Not the brave smile she gave doctors.
A real one.
I quietly walked away.
The next morning, I summoned Clara to my office.
“You were hired to clean this house.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then why are you caring for my mother?”
She hesitated.
“Because she was scared.”
I stared at her.
“She has nurses.”
“They monitor her condition,” Clara replied. “That’s not the same as sitting beside someone when they think they might die.”
The words irritated me because I knew they were true.
Clara told me about nights my mother couldn’t sleep.
About the hair falling onto her pillow.
About the tea she liked when nausea became unbearable.
