the ER, I pressed my forehead against the edge of her mattress and cried until my chest hurt.
I cried for her.
I cried for the son who was not coming.
I cried for the woman I had become while trying to make his absence look respectable.
Then Gertrude’s fingers moved.
At first, I thought it was a reflex.
Her hand tightened around mine with a sudden strength that startled me upright.
Her eyes opened.
They were tired, but clear.
She fixed them on my face as if she had
