Every December 20th, my mother and I shared one perfect ritual: a giant Hershey’s bar, two coffees, the same park bench. She died in October. When I went alone for the first time, a man was already sitting there, holding a Hershey’s bar. He said, “Your mom kept a secret from you.”The machines beside Mom’s bed hummed softly, steady and indifferent.I was sitting in the hard plastic chair, rubbing lotion into my mother’s hands the way the nurse showed me. Her skin felt thinner than it should. Fragile.Then Mom cleared her throat.
Her face was pale against the pillow, her hair thinner than it had been two weeks ago.AdvertisementHer lips pressed together. She stared at the ceiling, as if the answer was written there in the water stains and fluorescent lights.My chest tightened. “Mom?”She turned her head toward me.
