I took her hand.

It was ice-cold and impossibly light, as if nothing but brittle bone and translucent skin remained. “Baby, I’m here. Mom is here.”

Her dark eyelashes fluttered. For a terrifying moment, I thought I’d arrived too late. Then, slowly, painfully, her green eyes opened. They were unfocused at first, clouded by heavy morphine, but then they locked onto my face.

“Mom,” she breathed.

Those three letters completely shattered me. I bent over the metal rail of the bed and pressed her fragile hand against my wet cheek. “Of course I came,” I wept.

“Why didn’t you call me? Why didn’t you let me come take care of you?”

Sarah’s eyes drifted shut, a tear leaking from the corner. “Greg told me not to bother you. He said you were enjoying your retirement. He said… he said I’d be a burden, and that I’d be getting better soon anyway.”