I offered, once, to take her to a clinic.

She declined, firmly.

“Don’t waste the money, Laura.

It’ll pass.” And David, when I mentioned my worry to him, offered the comfortable explanation that she was simply exhausted from keeping up with an infant at her age — and I seized that explanation with both hands, because it let me keep my eyes on my launch.

I want to be honest about the ugliness of what happened in me over those weeks, because it is the black heart of this whole story.

I was watching my mother’s body visibly transform, watching her grow thin and sick and swollen, and instead of fear for her, what grew in me was suspicion of her.