Chapter 2

2

Lorraine’s recovery was much worse than the doctors predicted.

The hip wouldn't heal properly. Combined with her diabetes, the wound was slow to close and frequently became infected. She was admitted to the ICU twice in four months.

Maddox kept saying, “Just a little longer. Mom will get better.”

Then one year passed.

Then two.

Three years.

I withered away from twenty-six to nearly thirty.

Every morning, I woke up at 5:40 AM. Lorraine needed to be turned at six to prevent bedsores. I’d roll her over, wipe her back with warm water, apply ointment, and change her pads.

Breakfast was at seven. I’d cook oatmeal until it was mush, mixing in finely chopped vegetables and protein. I fed her one spoonful at a time. Her teeth were bad, and she chewed slowly. A single bowl of food took forty minutes to finish.

After feeding her, I’d clean up and begin her physical therapy massages.

The doctor taught me how. Thighs, calves, ankles. I spent twenty minutes on each joint to prevent muscle atrophy. Eventually, fluid built up in my thumb joints, causing them to swell into hard lumps. Maddox saw them once and just told me to put some Tiger Balm on it. He never offered to help with the massages. Not once.

Lunch was the same―cooking, feeding, washing.

The afternoons were for laundry. Lorraine’s clothes had to be changed daily because of her incontinence. In the winter, scrubbing her soiled linens by hand made the skin on my knuckles crack and bleed. Maddox suggested buying a new washer, but I told him hand-washing was the only way to get them truly clean.

Then came the grocery shopping. I’d wander the aisles alone, picking the cheapest vegetables. Maddox’s salary had gone up, but he claimed he was saving every penny for the mortgage. He only gave me two thousand a month for the entire household. When it wasn't enough, I used my own savings.

Dinner was followed by more cleaning, pad changes, and turning her body. At 10:00 PM, I’d check her blood pressure and glucose. Then I’d wash whatever clothes were left from the day. By the time everything was hanging to dry, it was 11:30 PM.

The moment I laid down, it felt like my bones were shattering.

Maddox had been promoted to department manager three months ago. His salary had doubled. He lied to me about not getting a raise―I only found out later when I saw a stray paystub.

But he started coming home later and later. From seven to eight, then nine, then midnight.

I asked him about it once.

“The office is busy. You think promotions just fall out of the sky?” He didn't even look at me.

I looked at myself in the mirror. Twenty-nine years old. Fine lines were creeping around my eyes. My hands were covered in bandages from scrubbing laundry. My finger joints were deformed from the constant massaging. My hair was thrown back in a messy bun, unwashed for days.

I couldn't remember the last time I’d worn makeup.

Sometimes, when Lorraine was lucid, she would hold my hand and refuse to let go.

“Elena...” her voice was so weak I had to lean in close.

“I’m here, Mom.”

“You’re too tired. You need to rest.”

I’d just smile. “I’m okay.”

“Maddox... you have to be patient with him.” Her eyes would well up with tears.

“I know,” I’d say, tucking her in.

Back then, I thought she meant he was just busy. I thought she was telling me to be an understanding wife.

Later, I realized what she actually meant. She knew her son was a piece of trash.