Jason cried while we loaded boxes into a borrowed pickup truck.

“Are we ever coming back?” he asked.

Mom smiled softly. “No, sweetheart.”

We moved into a small, two-bedroom apartment above a laundromat. The washing machines rattled all night.

But Mom fought. She fought through chemo, the radiation, and the nights when she couldn’t get out of bed.

That was the moment I realized that if someone in this family was going to stay when things got ugly, it would have to be me.

“Are we ever coming back?”

Some evenings, I helped her walk to the bathroom. Other nights, I held the bucket when she got sick and helped her bathe when she was too weak to stand.

Jason did homework at the kitchen table while I cooked macaroni or canned soup.

I worked evenings at a grocery store after high school. I studied in hospital waiting rooms, memorizing biology terms under fluorescent lights while Mom slept through treatments.

One afternoon during her fourth chemo round, I watched a nurse gently adjust Mom’s blanket.

I worked evenings at a grocery store after high school.

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