All my life, my mother and I had a PERFECT PRE-CHRISTMAS TRADITION, every December 20th.

She turned her head

towards me.

Her eyes were tired, but calm... as if she had already made peace with something I was unaware of.

"I need you to promise me something."

My stomach knotted. We were now entering dangerous territory. I could feel it.

The promises made in a hospital room to one's dying mother are not the same ones broken later.

"Promise what?"

We entered

now in dangerous territory.

"When the time comes, listen to your heart. Not your anger, not the guilt of others, nor even what you think I would have wanted. Do what you believe is right."

"You scare me, Mom."

She gave a faint smile. "That's not my intention."

What did she mean by "when the time comes"? What time? What choice was she preparing me for?

"Do what you

I think you're being fair.

She closed her eyes.

For a moment, I thought she had fallen asleep. Her breathing was slow and shallow, like when painkillers take effect.

Then she opened her eyes again and completely changed the subject.

"I don't think I'll be able to maintain our Christmas tradition this year."

Those words hit me harder than I expected.

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