She wasn’t trying to be noble. She was tired. Tired of hospital gowns, bills, waiting rooms, and the look in Ashley’s eyes when money was tight. At seventy-two, she’d lived a full life. George was gone, the house was gone, and if this was the end—so be it.
For a week, the charade held. She moved less, stayed in her room more, swallowed tea with pills when no one was looking. Dinner became a performance. But something about her had shifted, and her family sensed it, like the air right before a storm—still, heavy, too quiet to ignore.