My mother had hidden the evidence of her own dying in a secret compartment, in my house, the way another person might hide something shameful.

She had been that determined not to be found out.

Not to be a bother.

I pulled out the folder.

Inside were the pathology reports, the surgical discharge papers, the oncology referrals, the prescriptions — the entire paper trail of a year-long battle she had fought almost entirely alone.

And tucked beneath all of it was a thick white envelope.

I opened it, and my breath left me.

Inside was every single dollar I had ever transferred into her account over the past six months — the money for the creams, the clothes, the vitamins, all of it, not one cent spent.