One of those daytime court shows had rolled into the evening reruns.
Lauren moved softly, not because the apartment was peaceful but because sickness had made everything fragile.
Her mother, Denise, woke easily these days.
The treatment had drained her.
The months before treatment had drained her more.
Lauren slipped off her shoes and stood there a second, looking at the couch.
Her mother’s hair had thinned.
Her cheekbones showed more.
But even asleep, there was something stubborn in her face.
The same stubbornness that had carried them through every ugly year before this one.
Lauren walked to the kitchen.
Opened the fridge.
Closed it again.
A half gallon of milk.
A jar of mustard.
Some eggs.
An onion going soft.
Leftover rice in a plastic container.
That was it.
She put both hands on the counter and stared at the cheap laminate until her eyes blurred.
She had once built software for inventory systems.
