“Are you leaving?”
She seemed surprised.
“Do you want me to?”
I thought about the question.
Yesterday I would have said that staffing decisions belonged to me.
Today it sounded ridiculous.
“No.”
She nodded.
“Then not yet.”
Not yet.
I didn’t like those words.
But I let them remain.
Over the next week, something changed in the house.
Not dramatically.
Mother was still sick.
Doctors still came.
Medication still lined the bathroom cabinet.
But I began arriving home before dinner.
At first Mother found this suspicious.
“Did the stock market close?”
“No.”
“Has capitalism ended?”
“No.”
“Then why are you home at six?”
“I live here.”
“You have technically lived here for years.”
Clara hid a smile behind a teacup.
I ignored her.
I started sitting with Mother while she ate.
Some nights she ate only three bites.
Some nights she talked for an hour.
I learned that she hated the television in her bedroom.
