My husband brought his mother, who had cancer, home for me to take care of, and then went on a business trip for a year. Before she passed away, she told me, “Dig in the kitchen corner, under the pickle jar.” I was shocked when I found—
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, a certain evasion in his eyes, and his voice was 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—rough, calloused skin brushing against mine—and 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 before he even opened his mouth.
He approached, placing his hands on my shoulders, and in a grave, serious voice he told me, “Sophia, I just received the board’s decision this afternoon.
The company is sending me to Germany for a year to oversee a key project. It’s my only chance for a promotion to regional director.”
I froze, looking back and forth between the suitcase and his face. “A year?
Why so sudden? Mom just got here—sick as she is. You’re planning to leave now?”
Michael sighed.
His face showed a distress that seemed meticulously rehearsed. He knew it was a sacrifice for me, but he told me to look at his mother—terminal lung cancer, and the treatment costs were a fortune every day. If he did not accept this assignment, where would they get the money for her medicine, for the radiation therapy?
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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