It had snowed hard. The neighborhood looked like it had been dipped in white paint. I parked at the end of the street because her driveway was packed and my little Civic would’ve died trying to climb it. I walked up the path carefully, boots crunching through the ice, telling myself I was being dramatic.
Then I looked through the front window.
Not a little brace. Not a limp. A full cast that went up high enough to make my stomach drop.
And she was scrubbing the floor.
Not casually. Not lightly. She was working like someone afraid to stop. She leaned on counters and furniture to keep her balance, hauling laundry like it weighed nothing, wobbling from room to room in that two-story house as if pain was just a minor inconvenience.
My blood went cold.
I tried the doorknob. The door cracked open.
“Mom?” I pushed inside, voice rising before I could stop it. “Mom, what happened?”
She turned, startled. Sweat shone at her hairline. Her face was pale in that way people get when they’re running on pain and obligation.
She tried to smile, but it barely formed. “Oh… honey. I slipped a few days ago. I broke my leg.”
She looked away. “I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Worry me?” I stared at the cast. “You’re cleaning with a broken leg. That’s not something you keep to yourself.” Continue reading…
