He Said My Mother Dying Wasn’t His Problem

held the marks of that Tuesday. Her teacup in the sink. The pill organizer open on the counter. One slipper near the table where she’d gone down.

She stood in the doorway a long moment.

Then she said, “Well. This place could use a dusting.”

I almost started crying again, so I handed Walter the casserole and told him to find plates before I embarrassed continue reading …