It took about three weeks for the cracks to show. No one ever mentioned a hospital. There were no appointment reminders, no prescriptions, no paperwork on the table. Instead, there were new clothes on Natasha, a newer television, glossy brochures for resorts under the junk mail.
When I asked how Natasha was feeling, she pressed a hand to her stomach and sighed theatrically, then changed the subject.
One afternoon, I was watering the sad little plants on the balcony when I heard her voice drift through the open sliding door, sharp enough to cut right through the softest parts inside. “I cannot wait to be rid of her,” Natasha hissed. “She is such a burden. She doesn’t work; she just sits there reading those sad little books and judging us.”
I froze, my hand still on the watering can. The soil kept drinking while my heart stopped. Todd’s voice came next, lower, familiar in a way that hurt. “Relax,” he said. “Once she’s out of the way, we can finally enjoy ourselves. Hawaii, remember? First trip, no interference. We didn’t drag her here just to babysit us forever.” They both laughed, and the sound hollowed me out.
I stood there on that balcony, with 50 years of memories of being abandoned, and felt something inside me crack like thin glass. They had never needed surgery money. They had needed a down payment on their freedom from me.
I packed the watering can away, wiped my eyes, and pretended not to know. A week later, Todd announced we were taking a drive to “check out a nice place.” I knew before we pulled into the parking lot with the tasteful sign. A nursing home. My new address, whether I liked it or not.
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