Twelve years like that.
Twelve years watching a once-strong woman grow small and fragile.
Once, out of pure exhaustion, I burst into tears beside her bed:
“Mom, I’m only your daughter-in-law… sometimes I feel like I just can’t do this anymore.”
She didn’t say much. She was never a woman of many words. She just squeezed my hand with her cold, weathered fingers and said softly:
“That’s exactly why, honey… that’s why God is going to look at you differently.”
I don’t know why, but that sentence stuck with me. From then on, I cared for her with even more tenderness. If her stomach hurt, I made her rice soup. If she was cold, I put two heavy wool blankets on her and sat there rubbing her feet. If she couldn’t sleep, I stayed by her side even if I knew I would be completely exhausted the next day.
