My mother is the kind of woman who apologizes for being sick.
That is the first thing anyone needs to understand about Helen Park. She is seventy years old and has spent almost her entire life trying not to inconvenience anyone. She apologizes when she is tired, when someone has to drive her, when she needs medication, when she takes up a room, and sometimes even when she eats. For forty years, I have told her she does not need to apologize for existing. She still does.
Mom came from people who believed survival depended partly on never asking too much of anyone. Her parents had arrived in the United States with almost nothing, and the lesson they passed to her was simple: work hard, endure quietly, and never become someone else’s burden.
She carried that lesson so faithfully that even illness could not persuade her she deserved care without apology. I understood where it came from, but understanding it did not make watching it easier. Every “sorry” sounded like proof that she still believed love had to be earned by being easy to care for.
My name is Sara Choi-Bennett. I am her daughter, and I had been married to Gabriel Bennett for nine years when Mom was diagnosed with stage-three breast cancer.
There was another reason her question about Gabriel bothered me. My full name is Sara Choi-Bennett. When Gabriel and I married, he wanted me to become simply Sara Bennett. I kept Choi because it was part of me, part of my father, my mother, and the family history that existed long before my marriage. Gabriel called the hyphen unnecessarily complicated.
We compromised, or at least I thought we did. Looking back, that early disagreement should have taught me something. He was comfortable with compromise when the final shape still felt mostly like his preference. I had spent years calling that personality instead of recognizing it as a pattern.
Her oncologist, Dr. Reyes, was direct. The treatment plan was encouraging, but chemotherapy would be aggressive. Mom would need help.
“I’ll manage,” Mom said immediately.
“Mrs. Park, going through chemotherapy alone is not advisable,” Dr. Reyes replied.
“I’ve managed alone before.”
She had. My father had been dead for nineteen years, and Mom had built her life around needing as little from other people as possible. But this time, I refused to let her do everything alone.
“You’re staying with me,” I said.
“Sara.”
“You’re staying with us.”
“I don’t want to be in the way.”
“You won’t be.”
Then she asked the question she was really worried about.
“Gabriel?”
I told her I had already spoken to him. Technically, that was true.
Gabriel had not been enthusiastic.
“How long is she staying?” he asked.
“As long as she needs.”
“I just want to know there’s an end date.”
“She has cancer, Gabriel. I cannot give you an end date.”
Eventually he sighed and said, “Fine.”
NEXT PAGE
