My mother had told the story of her sacrifice for years. She had described exhausted nights, unpaid bills, and lonely holidays after my father’s death. I had built much of my adult life around repaying a debt I believed I owed her.
But if she had changed one part of the story, what else had she changed?
Maya studied my face.
“You didn’t know?”
“No.”
Before she could respond, a social worker entered the room.
Her name was Lena Morales. She had a composed face, kind eyes, and a folder tucked under one arm.
She asked to speak with us together.
Lena explained that the hospital’s concern was not merely Maya’s infection. It was the combination of her condition, the lack of food, the low temperature in the apartment, and the absence of the people who had agreed to care for her.
