It’d be great if I could say my mom was getting better, or if Sukani suddenly, miraculously responded. But no, the well stays silent. And my mom? She doesn’t get better. In fact, she gets worse every single day.
By now, she barely spoke. I don’t know if it was the cancer or if she was just tired—tired of living, of suffering. She stopped knitting, stopped everything. It was as if she’d shut down completely. Her nasal prongs left permanent lines across her gaunt cheeks, and I couldn’t tell if it was my imagination or reality, but it felt like her decline accelerated in just a matter of days.
The strangest part? We never talked about Dad. Not once. It was like he’d been erased from our lives, a ghost who’d simply stopped haunting us. He never visited. He never called—not even on her birthday.
“Happy birthday, Mom!” I said with a smile, placing a tiny chocolate cake on her bedside table.