She had told him she was already under an oncologist’s care, that she had it managed, that my launch was at its most critical point, and that if I found out I would drop everything, torch my career, and drown myself in guilt.

She had constructed, out of her own suffering, a careful shelter to keep the storm off of me.

And David, God help him, loving her and not knowing what else to do, had honored her wish.

I wanted to scream at him.

I wanted, badly, to make this his fault.

But even as the anger rose, it collapsed under the weight of my own memory — because I was suddenly remembering every single time over those six months that I had walked through the front door and spoken to my mother. Did Maya take her full bottle?

Did you wash the crib sheets?