Inside, the landlord looked at me with pity and said,
“She moved out months ago. Couldn’t keep up with the rent after her health went downhill.”
My chest went numb.
I tracked her down to a small care facility on the edge of town.
When I walked into her room, I barely recognized her.
Thinner.
Sicker.
But still smiling.
She looked up and said, “Hey, kiddo. You look tired. Are you eating enough?”
That’s when I learned the truth.
She’d been working nights for years.
Skipping doctor visits.
Ignoring symptoms.
Putting me first—always.
