The machines next to Mom's bed hummed softly, regularly and indifferently.
I was sitting on a hard plastic chair, applying lotion to my mother's hands, just as the nurse had shown me. Her skin seemed thinner than it should have been. Fragile.
Then Mom cleared her throat.
"I think I made a mistake."
I looked up.
I looked up.
Her face was pale against the pillow, her hair thinner than it had been two weeks ago.
"What kind of mistake?"
She pursed her lips. She stared at the ceiling, as if the answer lay there, in the damp patches and fluorescent lights.
My chest tightened. "Mom?"
She turned her head towards me.
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