Chapter 6 — The Bruises

I helped my mother to the guest room.

I cleaned the wound above her eyebrow, and brought her water, and warmed her a proper bowl of soup, a real one, and sat with her while she ate it.

And with her permission — I asked her, gently, and she nodded — I photographed every bruise.

The wrist.

A darker one, older, on her upper arm.