I got a call from my mom, asking me to pick up my brother from school. Her voice was tired. I drove there, found him waiting outside and brought him home.
As soon as we went inside she said, “I need to lie down for a bit. Just watch your brother for a while.”
She looked pale. Not sick-sick, but that kind of drained look people get when life’s been leaning too heavy on them.
I nodded and said, “Of course,” even though I had plans to meet my friends later.
My little brother, Arman, was only 9. Bright kid. Too observant sometimes.
He sat on the couch flipping through some superhero comic. I made us both a sandwich and we ended up watching old cartoons like we used to.
A couple of hours passed. Mom hadn’t come out of her room.
I knocked gently, then cracked the door open. She was asleep. Or at least, I thought so.
Her breathing was soft, almost too soft. I stood there watching her for a minute, something uneasy curling in my stomach.
That night, she didn’t eat dinner. Said she had a headache.
Arman and I ate together, just the two of us. I cleaned up, tucked him into bed, then sat in my own room scrolling through my phone, the uneasiness still there.
The next morning, she was still in bed when I got up. That was rare.
She was always the first one awake, making tea, ironing uniforms, opening windows. I knocked again. This time she answered, but her voice was faint.“I’m just… really tired,” she whispered.
“Call in for me, okay? Tell them I won’t make it today.”
Mom never missed work unless she absolutely had to. She worked at a grocery store down the street, mostly stocking shelves and handling customers at the cash register.
It wasn’t glamorous, but it paid the bills and kept food in the fridge.
I called her boss. He didn’t sound surprised. “She’s been pushing herself too hard,” he said.
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