The house was spotless.
Not comfortable.
Not lived in.
Spotless.
Every magazine aligned perfectly.
Every chair pushed in exactly the same distance.
Even the throw pillows looked untouched.
“Where’s Mom?”
“Resting.”
Chloe glanced toward the hallway.
“She’s been difficult lately.”
“Difficult?”
“You know how older people become.”
She sighed dramatically.
“They imagine things. Forget conversations. Get emotional.”
I didn’t answer.
Instead, I walked farther into the living room.
That’s when I saw her.
She was standing halfway down the hallway, one fragile hand resting against the wall for support.
For a second I didn’t recognize my own mother.
Three months earlier, we’d celebrated Christmas together.
She had laughed while making gingerbread cookies with my children.
She’d danced in the kitchen to Frank Sinatra.
She’d beaten everyone at Scrabble.
Now…
She looked twenty years older.
Her cheeks had sunk inward.
Her silver hair had become thin.
Her shoulders curved as though carrying invisible weight.
And despite the warm house…
She wore a thick brown winter coat buttoned all the way to her neck.
“Mom?”
Her eyes widened.
Then they immediately filled with tears.
“My baby…”
She started toward me.
Halfway across the room she suddenly stopped.
