A tiny scar on her hand.
A thin white line across the knuckle.
I had seen that scar before.
I searched through old family photos.
Then I found one.
My mother was sitting at the kitchen table.
Beside her was a woman I hadn’t seen in years.
My stomach dropped.
I knew her.
Her name was Claire Bennett.
She had been my mother’s home health aide during the final months before hospice.
Claire had visited our house several times.
She had brought groceries.
She had helped Mom organize her medications.
She had even attended one of our family dinners.
And she had met Ethan.
I stared at the photograph.
The bracelet.
The scar.
The woman.
It was Claire.
I felt sick.
My mother had trusted her.
I had trusted her.
And Ethan had been meeting her in hotels.
I called Ethan.
He answered after the second ring.
“Sarah?”
“Was it Claire?”
Silence.
That was all I needed.
“How long?”
“Sarah…”
“How long?”
He finally said,
“About six months.”
Six months.
My mother had been sick for almost that long.
I sat on the floor.
“Was she the only one?”
“Yes.”
“Did you love her?”
“No.”
“Did you love me?”
“Yes.”
I laughed through my tears.
“Then why?”
He didn’t answer for several seconds.
Finally, he said:
“Because I was selfish.”
That was the first honest thing he’d said.
I hung up.
But I still wasn’t finished.
The next morning, I went back to my mother’s hospice room.
It was empty now.