“She had nobody.”
Joel’s expression softened.
“That doesn’t make her your responsibility.”
The word stayed with me.
Responsibility.
For years, I had told myself my mother hadn’t been my responsibility either.
Or at least, that had been the excuse I used whenever the guilt became too heavy.
My father left when I was young, so Mom raised us almost entirely on her own. She worked endlessly, sacrificed whatever she had to, and somehow still managed to help her children build futures for themselves.
I went to college in another state.
My siblings eventually moved away too.
Mom had always been strong, so when her health started deteriorating, none of us understood how bad it had become.
She never told us.
Whenever I called, she gave the same answer.
“I’m fine, Sam. Stop worrying.”
And because believing her was easier than imagining the alternative, I accepted it.
