PART 2

When I entered through the garage, the kitchen looked wrong. Beer bottles covered the counter. There was an open bag of chips, a half-eaten pizza, and a stain in the hallway carpet that looked several days old.

Then I heard football on television.

The sound was coming from the guest room.

My mother’s room.

I walked down the hall and opened the door.

Gabriel was sitting on the bed. Danny occupied the chair I had placed by the window for Mom. Beer and snacks were scattered around them while a football game played loudly on the television.

Gabriel went pale when he saw me.

“Honey. I didn’t know you were coming home early.”

I looked around once.

“Where is my mother?”

He hesitated.

“My brother came over, and we wanted to watch the game in here because there’s a television.”

“Where is my mother, Gabriel?”

“I moved her downstairs.”

I stared at him.

“The basement?”

“She’s comfortable down there.”

“This is her room.”

His expression hardened, as if getting defensive might somehow make the situation reasonable.

“No, it isn’t. It’s my room. This whole house is mine. I’m the man of the house.”

I said nothing. I turned and went downstairs.

Our basement was technically finished, but nobody would call it a proper bedroom. There was no bathroom and no real window. It contained storage, a laundry area, and the furnace.

In the middle of the floor was an air mattress.

My seventy-year-old mother, three weeks into chemotherapy, was asleep on it.

Her medication bottles were beside her on the floor.

What made the sight downstairs worse was that every detail of the guest room had been chosen for a reason. The bathroom was steps away because Mom sometimes had only seconds of warning when nausea hit. The bed was high enough that she could stand without struggling. The chair by the window gave her somewhere to sit on days when lying down made her feel trapped.

The basement erased all of that.

To reach a bathroom, she had to climb stairs. To stand from the air mattress, she had to push herself up from nearly floor level.

Gabriel had not simply exchanged one sleeping place for another.

He had removed every small accommodation that made her treatment more manageable.

I stood there feeling something inside me go cold.

Mom stirred and opened her eyes.

“Sara?”

“I’m here.”

“You came home early.”

“Yes.”

Then, immediately, she said, “I’m sorry I’m down here.”

Of course she apologized.

“Gabriel said they needed the room. I didn’t want to cause trouble.”

“You did not cause anything.”

“Danny wanted to watch the game.”

“I know.”

“I can manage down here.”

That sentence nearly broke me because I knew she meant it. My mother could endure almost anything if enduring it meant nobody else had to adjust.

“You are not staying here.”

“Sara, what about Gabriel?”

“I’ll handle Gabriel.”

I helped her stand. She had lost weight during treatment, and the stairs exhausted her. She apologized as we climbed, apologizing for moving slowly and for needing my arm.

When we reached the guest room, Gabriel and Danny were still there.

I looked at Danny.

“Thank you for visiting. You need to leave now.”

He glanced at Gabriel.

Gabriel started to speak.

“Danny. Please leave.”

He stood and left without arguing.

Gabriel looked at me.

“Sara.”

“Get out of this room.”

“This is my house.”

“Leave the room, Gabriel.”

He studied my face, then walked out.

I helped Mom into bed, checked her medicine, and discovered she had missed a dose. I made ginger tea and sat with her while she drank it.

“I shouldn’t have let him move me,” she whispered.

“Mom, you have cancer. You are on chemotherapy. Managing Gabriel’s behavior is not your job.”

“He’s your husband.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want to cause problems between you.”

“You didn’t.”

“He said the game was important.”

I stared at her.

“The game?”

She nodded.

“I didn’t want to be the reason for a fight.”

“You are never the reason for this fight.”

She looked tired.

“I’m not sure Gabriel sees it that way.”

“I know.”

When she finished the tea, she apologized again for my coming home to a mess.

“I’m glad I came home early,” I said.

“I would have been fine.”

“I know you would have managed. That is not the point.”

She looked at me.

“You do not have to manage everything alone anymore. You are allowed to need people.”

“It feels like weakness.”

“It isn’t weakness.”

“What is it, then?”

“It’s letting someone love you.”

She was quiet for a while.

“Your father always said I was terrible at that.”

“He was right.”

She smiled faintly.

“I’m trying.”

“I know.”

I stayed until she fell asleep, then went downstairs.

Gabriel was in the kitchen cleaning up some of the bottles.

“Sara, before you say anything, Danny called and wanted to come over. I didn’t know you were returning early.”

“I know.”

“I would have set things up differently if I knew.”

“That is exactly the problem.”

He frowned.

“What?”

“You would have behaved differently if you knew I was watching.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Yes, it is. You moved my seventy-year-old mother, who is receiving chemotherapy, out of the room I prepared for her and onto an air mattress in the basement because your brother wanted to watch football. You did it because you thought I would not find out for four days.”

“She was fine.”

“She was not fine.”

“She didn’t complain.”

“Gabriel, my mother has spent seventy years not complaining. She would probably apologize if you put her outside. Her silence does not make what you did acceptable.”

His jaw tightened.

“I’m the man of the house.”

There it was again.

“You are my husband,” I said. “You are not the man of the house in the way you mean it. We bought this house together. We both pay for it. We both own it. Being a man does not give you more authority than me.”

“I know she has cancer.”

“Then act like you know.”

“I do everything for this family.”

“You put a sick woman in the basement for football.”

“I needed the room.”

“For football.”

“Danny was here.”

“For football.”

He stopped arguing.

“My mother is staying here for as long as she needs treatment,” I said. “The guest room is hers while she is here. The bathroom across from it remains available to her. If you want to watch a game, use the living room.”

Then I added, “If you move her again, I will respond differently.”

“What does that mean?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It is not a threat. It is information.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“You moved a chemotherapy patient for a football game.”

“She’s your mother.”

“Yes,” I said. “Exactly. She is my mother.”