her.”
“I’ll check on her.”
“Gabriel.”
“Sara, I’ve got it.”
I left because I believed him.
Every evening, Mom sent short texts.
“Fine. Eating a little.”
“Slept okay.”
“Took the medication.”
Nothing sounded alarming.
Seattle demanded more concentration than I wanted to give it. The clients had paid for my attention, so during meetings I forced myself to stay in the room mentally instead of constantly checking my phone. At night, however, I read Mom’s short messages several times. Her brevity reassured me because it sounded like her. She hated
