“Nora, dear?” my mother called out softly that afternoon, hearing my footsteps in the hall.

“Right here, Mom,” I said, and I smiled as I stepped into the sunlit room and set the tray of tea and fresh scones down on the little table beside her chair.

She reached out for my hand, and her hand, when it took mine, was warm and steady, no longer the limp, unresponsive weight I had lifted so gently on that first terrible night.

She squeezed my fingers tightly.