have to work this hard. Her hands were red, calloused, and
trembling with exhaustion, the same hands that used to smooth my hair back when I was sick as a child, the same hands that had scrubbed hospital floors for twenty years so I could go to college.
“Mom,” I called out, my voice cracking on the single syllable.
My mother stopped her scrubbing, wiped sweat from her forehead with her forearm, and turned around. When her eyes met mine, the scrub brush slipped from her hand into the bucket, the splash loud in the sudden silence between us.
“Natalie!” she gasped, bursting into tears as she tried to push herself up from the stone floor, her knees clearly protesting the movement. “My baby, you’re home.”
I ran across the patio and caught her in my arms before she could fully stand, pulling her close, feeling her whole body shake
