She couldn't even cry without hiding it, terrified I'd worry.
I walked over and wrapped my arms around her.
"Mom, don't cry."
"You've already shed too many tears for me in this life."
My father died young.
She raised me alone.
When I was seven, I got so sick no hospital would take me. My mother held me in her arms and knelt in front of a doctor, sobbing, begging him to save me.
In the end, he agreed to try.
For weeks I hovered at death's door. She lived every hour in terror, her face never dry, afraid each breath I took would be my last.
I swore to myself then that I would never make my mother cry again.
And here I was, breaking that promise.
She wiped her face with the back of her hand and sniffed:
"Prudence, I'm sorry. It's my fault. I'm useless, and now you can't even hold your head up in this house."
I shook my head, looked her straight in the eye:
"Mom, you are the best mother in the world. I mean that."
"Trust me. This isn't over."
She searched my face, her eyes full of worry:
"Prudence, please don't pick a fight with them. I'm scared you'll be the one who gets hurt."
I smoothed the wisps of gray hair from her forehead and kept my voice low:
"Mom, don't worry. I know what I'm doing."
She looked at me, her lips parted like she wanted to say more, but in the end she stayed silent.
When the bags were packed, we walked out together.
The cleaning crew had already arrived.
Two women in blue uniforms, masks on, rubber gloves pulled tight, were hauling disinfection equipment through the front door.
Cornelia stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, barking orders:
"I want every inch of this place sanitized."
"Especially the guest room. Spray it down multiple times. Throw out all the sheets and bedding."
Seth chimed in from beside her:
"Right, and the kitchen too. Get rid of all the pots and pans."
My mother's steps faltered.
The guest room was where she had slept for the past month. She washed those sheets every week and folded them with care.
The kitchen was where she had spent most of her time. Every pot and pan had been scrubbed until it shone.
But in Cornelia's eyes, and in Seth's, everything my mother had touched was filthier than garbage.
Mom let out a quiet sigh, said nothing, and walked out of the house without a word.
I took her to the train station and watched her board.