The kitchen light flickered above me as I sorted Mom’s evening pills on the scratched countertop. My five-month-old son rested on my hip while Mark worked another double shift to help us stay afloat.
From the next room came Mom’s labored breathing, slow and raspy in the otherwise quiet house.
“Em, honey,” she called softly. “Is that you?”
“Coming, Mom.”
I shifted the baby to my other shoulder and picked up the small paper cup of water and the handful of pills.
“Is that you?”
My mom, Margaret, looked smaller than she had last week. The disease was physically erasing her, leaving only a thin shadow of the once strong, fierce woman who had raised us.