The next week, Lisa offered to drive Helen to a checkup. “I’ve got you, Mom,” she said, smiling with her eyes elsewhere. On the morning of, Helen waited by the door, coat folded, purse on her lap.
At 9:45, a text: Sorry, something came up. Can you go without me? Helen typed Of course, take care—then deleted it. She went alone. The hospital smelled like disinfectant and memory.
When she came home, the phone stayed quiet. No “How did it go?” No “I’m sorry.” The silence started to feel like an answer.
