Their mother was already living after it.
We waited four more days.
They were some of the longest days I can remember.
Mom healed a little each morning.
Dad brought her breakfast.
Aunt Linda stayed two nights.
I handled groceries and medication reminders.
Nobody pretended we weren’t waiting.
That was Mom’s rule.
When she was frightened, she said so.
When Dad was frightened, she made him say so too.
She looked at the screen.
Everyone stopped moving.
Mom answered.
“Hello?”
We watched her face.
“Yes.”
A pause.
Then her shoulders dropped.
“Benign?”
Dad covered his mouth.
Mom closed her eyes.
“Thank you.”
She listened for another minute, asked what follow-up she needed, then ended the call.
Aunt Linda was already crying.
Mom looked at us.
“It’s benign.”
Dad sank onto the bed beside her.
I wrapped my arms around both of them while Linda leaned over us.
For several seconds, nobody said anything useful.
Then Mom started laughing and crying at the same time.
Dad pressed his forehead against hers.
“I thought I was going to lose you.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know that too.”
Mom wiped her face.
“But if that call had gone differently, we would’ve dealt with that too.”
