Then he asked the question I had been avoiding.
“How long has your stomach been swollen?”
I stared at my teacup.
“Perhaps six months.”
He did not move.
“Six months?”
“Maybe a little longer.”
“And you didn’t tell anyone?”
“I thought it was weight gain.”
He looked at my face, then at my hands, which were trembling slightly around the cup.
“Have you lost weight?”
“A little.”
“Have you been eating normally?”
“Not always.”
“Any more pain?”
“Sometimes.”
He stood up so suddenly that his chair scraped against the floor.
“Get your coat.”
“Where are we going?”
“To see a doctor.”
“Michael, don’t be dramatic.”
He turned toward me.
“I’m not being dramatic. You’re my mother, and you’ve been hiding a medical problem from me for six months.”
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
He walked back to the table and crouched beside my chair.
His anger disappeared as quickly as it had come.
