In the end, the old woman ended up staying with us. And she also ended up becoming more and more alone.
The neighbors whispered a lot.
“Poor Mabel, she seems more like a full-time nurse than a daughter-in-law.”
“Let’s see if the other kids actually show up when the old woman passes.”
I heard everything, but I turned a deaf ear. Because to me, she wasn’t just “my husband’s mom.” She was a woman who had spent her entire life working until her knuckles were worn raw for her children, and in her final years, she couldn’t even pour herself a glass of water without her hands trembling violently.
There were days when I broke down too.
My husband often went to work long shifts in Chicago, and I had to stay alone with my young son and Fiona. I cooked, I cleaned, I bathed her, I changed her clothes, I made her warm oatmeal, I gave her her medicine, and I would wake up in the middle of the night just to check if her frail chest was still rising and falling.
