I refused.
I could not bring her back to rooms where Diane had cut pills into pieces and stirred them into applesauce.
We went to my sister Clara’s house.
Clara lived forty minutes away in a small blue house with too many plants and a guest room painted lavender.
When I called her from the hospital, I had barely said Diane’s name before she answered:
“Come here.”
No questions.
No judgment.
Just:
“Come here.”
That is how family should sound.
Emma slept in my arms the first night.
Every time I tried to move, she woke up.
“Don’t go.”
“I’m here.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
She asked that word every hour.
Promise.
Promise.
Promise.
As if promises were bricks and she was trying to build a wall around herself.
I gave her every brick I had.
The next morning, she refused breakfast.
Clara had made oatmeal with bananas.
Emma looked at the bowl and began to cry silently.
No sound.
Just tears sliding down her face.
I moved the bowl away.
“You don’t have to eat that.”
“Grandma put it in soft food.”
My sister turned toward the sink and covered her mouth.
I kept my face calm.
“What feels safe?”
Emma thought hard.
“Toast.”
So she ate dry toast.
