Her hands stopped moving in the soapy water.
Something passed across her face.
At nineteen, I couldn’t identify it.
Now I know it was sadness.
“Some things are just for me, Emma,” she said softly. “Maybe you’ll understand when you’re older.”
I rolled my eyes and let it go.
Eventually, I stopped asking.
My mother’s name was Helen.
She was the kind of woman everybody depended on.
If someone in the neighborhood was sick, she organized meals.
If someone forgot a birthday, Helen remembered.
If somebody needed help, she arrived with food, practical advice, and enough patience to listen for as long as necessary.
She had worked as a nurse for most of her adult life.
Even after retiring, she carried herself with that same calm competence.
