But her cheeks looked hollow, and even her voice sounded weaker.
My mother, Evelyn, had always been lively and cheerful. At eighty, she still enjoyed gardening, baking, and organizing our Sunday family dinners.
Only seven days earlier, she’d left to visit her childhood friend Margaret, whom she claimed she hadn’t seen in twenty years.
When I’d dropped her off at the station, she had been excited and energetic.
Now she looked completely exhausted.
“Mom, are you sick?”
“Just an upset stomach. Nothing serious.”
“I think we should get you checked.”
She shook her head.
“Please, Laura. I just want to go home.”
Then I noticed her luggage.
“Where’s your blue suitcase?”
“Margaret gave me this one. Mine broke.”
She tightened her grip on the handle.
“Can we leave now?”
I wanted to ask more questions, but she appeared too
tired to continue talking.
I took the suitcase from her.
It was surprisingly heavy.
As we walked toward the parking lot, I remembered how excited Mom had been about the visit.
