His voice softened.
“She hadn’t forgotten my mother. She had never stopped loving her.”
I glanced toward the medical tray beside the bed.
“Why did you stop going outside, Marjorie?”
She looked at the untouched soup.
“Because I’m sick.”
Owen lifted a thick folder from the dresser and handed it to me.
Inside were hospital records, appointment schedules, treatment information, and test results.
Then I saw the diagnosis.
Advanced pancreatic cancer.
I read the words several times before they felt real.
Marjorie watched me carefully.
“I didn’t want anyone in the neighborhood to know.”
My throat tightened.
“Why would you keep something like this secret?”
“Because I didn’t want to become the dying woman at the end of the street.”
A sad smile touched her lips.
“I wanted people to remember me as the woman who baked peach pies and argued with her roses.”
I looked at Owen.
