I didn’t think anything could feel worse than watching my mom die. I was twenty-six years old, sitting in a sterile hospital room that smelled like disinfectant and fear, holding her hand as breast cancer stole her breath one shallow inhale at a time. For almost three years, she’d fought with everything she had. But cancer doesn’t care about courage or determination or how many people still need you.
Toward the end, she barely had the strength to lift her head from the pillow. Her body had become this fragile, breakable thing that seemed too small for the hospital bed. But even then—even when speaking required effort she didn’t have—she still asked about me. About my older brother, Robert. About our father.
“Did you eat today, sweetheart?” she’d whisper, her voice paper-thin.
“Is Robert remembering to pay his bills on time? You know how he gets distracted.”
“Make sure your father takes his blood pressure medication. He always forgets when I’m not there to remind him.”
Even dying, she was still parenting us. Still worrying about everyone else while her own body was failing. That was just who she was—selfless to the very end. Or so I thought.
