He held my face in both hands like I was something precious. “You’re saving her life. You know that, right? My mother is going to walk again because of you.”
I wanted to believe him. I needed to.
But that night, I found a receipt in his jacket pocket for a restaurant I had never heard of, sixty miles in the opposite direction from the hospital. And on his collar was that new perfume again, sharp and floral, nothing like mine.
The next day, I called the hospital myself. A young nurse answered.
“I’d like to check on Patricia in the rehab wing, please. This is her daughter-in-law.”
There was a long silence. “Ma’am, no one has visited her today. Are you sure you have the right ward?”
The dial tone buzzed against my ear.
My thumb stayed pressed to the red button long after the screen went dark.
In my other hand, the shirt I had been folding sagged loose, its collar slipping over my fingers and pooling at my wrist like something already discarded.
That evening, I tried to ask Michael in the same calm way I always did.
“Michael, when did you last see your mother?”
“This morning, honey. Why?”
“The nurse said no one visited today.”
He laughed. “Babe, those nurses rotate every twelve hours. Half of them don’t know which patient is which. The doctors specifically asked me not to bring anyone else right now. You have to trust me.”
“I do trust you.”
I said it like a prayer, as if saying it aloud could make it true again.
Three days later, Michael zipped his suitcase beside the bed.
“Three-day conference in Denver. I’ll check my phone whenever I can.”
“Tell your mom I love her.”
“Always do.” Michael kissed me and left before the coffee cooled.
That afternoon, my phone rang while I was folding his shirts. The number was not saved.
“Is this Patricia’s daughter-in-law?”
