The taxi pulled up to the curb in front of a modest suburban house that my husband, Michael, and I had strained to buy three years ago. Michael quickly opened the car door, helping a gaunt, frail woman step out.
It was my mother-in-law, Elizabeth.
I hadn’t seen her in only six months, and her appearance had deteriorated shockingly.
Terminal lung cancer with metastasis had drained the life from a woman who was once as strong as an oak. Now she was nothing but skin and bones. Her eyes were sunken into dark sockets that reflected an infinite weariness.
I hurried over to take the old suitcase from Michael’s hands.
A potent smell of medication and antiseptic hit me, stinging my nose.
Michael looked at me—there was a certain evasion in his eyes—and his voice came out urgent, as if someone were chasing him. He told me to help his mother get settled in her room so she could rest. He needed to talk to me about something important right away.
I escorted my mother-in-law to the small downstairs bedroom I had thoroughly cleaned the day before.
Elizabeth sat on the edge of the bed. Her breathing was a heavy, wheezing gasp, like the bellows of an old forge. She took my hand, her rough, calloused skin brushing against mine.
She said nothing, only looking at me with a strange expression—a mixture of pity and resignation.
I returned to the living room.
Michael was already there adjusting his tie, and next to him stood a large, perfectly packed suitcase.
My intuition told me something was wrong. Michael approached, placing his hands on my shoulders, and in a grave, serious voice, he told me:
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