She Hid Being Sick, Because I Live Far Away

The suitcase was still by the door. Dieu had come home on short notice, no warning. She opened her mother's cabinet looking for a towel — and found two boxes standing side by side, blister packs more than half empty. Blood pressure. Diabetes. Taken every day, for the past year.

She stood there a long while, holding the pack, not sure where to put it down. Four foils popped, two still sealed. Which meant her mother had taken one this morning. Which meant every morning before that, too. She closed the cabinet, sat down on the edge of the bed, hands still cold.

Three years of working far from home, a phone call every week. Every time, her mother laughed into the receiver: I'm fine, don't worry about me. Bright enough that Dieu believed it. Only now does she understand — her mother wasn't being careless with that line. She had practiced it. Practiced until it sounded true.

Dieu got angry, said her mother shouldn't have hidden it. Her mother just smiled it off: you live far away, knowing would only make you worry. I take my pills, a doctor checks on me, it's nothing. The pill organizer has seven compartments, Monday through Sunday, the first few already empty. She really can manage on her own. She just never let her daughter see her managing.

She stayed quiet so I could rest easy. I get closer one phone call at a time.

When was the last time you asked past "are you okay"?