Lisa sitting beside her and asking whether she wanted tea.
Every act of kindness suddenly looked different.
How much of it had been real?
And how much had been performed by two people waiting for my mother to die?
I drove around for almost an hour before finally returning home.
Lisa was gone by then.
Dad opened the door.
“You’re early.”
I forced a smile.
“Surprise.”
He hugged me.
I stood against his shoulder staring past him toward the kitchen.
“Your mom’s sleeping,” he said. “Bad morning.”
“I’ll sit with her.”
And I did.
For the next month, I became frighteningly good at pretending.
Mom would wake up after treatment and ask about my classes.
I smiled.
Dad cooked soup.
I watched him.
Lisa visited.
I listened to every conversation.
Every day I considered telling Mom what I had heard.
I imagined sitting beside her bed and saying,
