A cruel part of me wanted to say, consequences.
A better part of me hated that cruel part.
“Did you tell the doctor you had not eaten?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Did you tell them about the chest pressure?”
“Yes, Vesper.”
“Good.”
She closed her eyes.
“I didn’t ask you here for a lecture.”
“Then why did you ask?”
Her face tightened.
For a moment, I thought she would snap.
Instead, she whispered, “I was scared.”
Everything in me went still.
My mother did not say things like that.
Fear, in our family, usually came dressed as anger.
I pulled the visitor chair closer.
My instructor watched me with gentle caution.
I was not there as my mother’s nurse.
Not officially.
I was her daughter.
The daughter she had used.
The daughter who still knew exactly how she liked her tea.
“I can sit for a few minutes,” I said.
