My mother swallowed dutifully, her eyes fixed on the floor.

That evening, I insisted on helping my mother get ready for bed. Vanessa scoffed over her red wine, warning me that Eleanor fought “like a feral cat” when water touched her.

I ignored her. I walked my mother up the stairs with agonizing slowness, and once we were inside her bathroom, I closed the door and locked it. I turned the shower on full, letting the hot water hammer the tiles into a curtain of white noise.

My mother stood in the center of the room, still in the heavy coat, staring at the locked door in terror.

“Mom,” I whispered, barely audible over the water. “The shower’s running. They can’t hear us. Please. Let me see.”

With trembling fingers, she finally relented. I undid the large black buttons and eased the heavy fabric off her shoulders. Underneath was a thin, worn cotton nightgown.