looked ready for brunch.
Mom looked ready to learn whether the treatment keeping her alive was still working.
Vanessa shook the ice in her cup.
“I said it’s not my problem.”
My mother lowered her eyes.
That was the moment something inside me shifted.
Not when Vanessa refused the car.
Not even when she rolled her eyes.
It was the way Mom looked down almost apologetically, as though she had done something shameful by getting old.
I kept my voice controlled.
“She needs to get to the hospital.”
“Then call someone.”
“Vanessa.”
“What?”
“You know we’ve waited three months for this appointment.”
“And I told you I have brunch.”
She said it with such confidence that, for one bizarre second, I almost admired the cruelty.
Mom touched my sleeve.
“David, it’s all right.”
No.
It wasn’t.
She had been awake since five that morning.
When I came downstairs at six,
