Two weeks later, we packed our things.
Her name was Brittany.
Jason cried while we loaded boxes into a borrowed pickup truck.
“Are we ever coming back?” he asked.
Mom smiled softly. “No, sweetheart.”
We moved into a small, two-bedroom apartment above a laundromat. The washing machines rattled all night.
But Mom fought. She fought through chemo, the radiation, and the nights when she couldn’t get out of bed.
That was the moment I realized that if someone in this family was going to stay when things got ugly, it would have to be me.
“Are we ever coming back?”
Some evenings, I helped her walk to the bathroom. Other nights, I held the bucket when she got sick and helped her bathe when she was too weak to stand.
Jason did homework at the kitchen table while I cooked macaroni or canned soup.
I worked evenings at a grocery store after high school. I studied in hospital waiting rooms, memorizing biology terms under fluorescent lights while Mom slept through treatments.
One afternoon during her fourth chemo round, I watched a nurse gently adjust Mom’s blanket.
I worked evenings at a grocery store after high school.
The nurse smiled at me. “You holding up okay?”
“Yeah,” I said.
But something about the way she spoke to Mom stayed with me. Calm and steady, as if sickness didn’t scare her.
On the taxi ride home, I told Mom, “I think I want to be a nurse.”
