It's been a month. We're close to May, and Mom is no close to better.
Letters come and go. I stay.
Becky and I are at the hospital, waiting to drive Mom back after her appointment.
"You don't have to stay."
"What do you mean? I want to stay."
"But you want to go."
I hear guilt. I don't know if that's what she means, but that's what I hear.
"I do, and I don't. I want to be here with you and Mom."
Her silence means, But you left us before, and I know that I will not be forgiven.
I stay. I knit and I stay.