This last winter was the hardest. Fiona stopped eating well. She got tired just speaking a few words. Sometimes she would stare at the bedroom door as if waiting for someone who never arrived.
One afternoon, she asked me to help her sit up in bed. I adjusted the old, worn pillow behind her back, and she sat there touching its frayed edges for a long time, deep in thought.
“What is it, Mom?” I asked gently.
“Nothing, Mabel… not yet.”
I didn’t understand what she meant.
That night, her breathing was worse than ever. I wiped her forehead, moistened her dry lips, and stayed by her side while the freezing winter wind blew against the windowpane. My son was already asleep. The house was dead silent. All you could hear was the ticking clock in the hallway… and Fiona’s heavy, shallow breathing.
Suddenly, she opened her eyes and searched for my gaze. I leaned in quickly.
