“How long is she staying?” he asked.
“As long as she needs.”
“I just want to know there’s an end date.”
“She has cancer, Gabriel. I cannot give you an end date.”
Eventually he sighed and said, “Fine.”
So Mom moved into the first-floor guest room. It was directly across from the bathroom, which mattered because chemotherapy made stairs and long walks difficult. The room also had a window overlooking our backyard garden, which Mom loved.
She arrived with one suitcase and a bag of medicine and apologized for both.
