My Mil Slapped Me For Choosing My Dying Mother Over A Thanksgiving Turkey. My Husband Watched And Did Nothing. I Just Cut The Power And Canceled Their Feast, So Why Do I Feel Like The Villain?

A Tradition of Two

Thanksgiving came around again. Emily walked down the hallway of the nursing home carrying two bags of fruit and a box of pastries. The hallway still had that strange mingled scent of antiseptic and old age. She knocked on the door to her mother’s room.

“Come in,” a caregiver’s voice called out.

Emily opened the door. Her mother was still lying in bed. A year had passed, but her condition was unchanged: the closed eyes, the feeding tube, the expressionless face. But Emily was used to it now. She placed the fruit and pastries on the bedside table and sat down in the chair next to the bed.

“Hi Mom, it’s me.”

She took her mother’s hand. It was thin and bony, but still warm.

“Mom, it’s Thanksgiving today. I brought you your favorite pumpkin pie.” The caregiver said, “You can’t eat it, but I thought you could at least smell it.”

She opened the box and held a small slice of pie near her mother’s nose. The sweet, spicy scent of cinnamon filled the air.

“Mom, I’m doing okay these days. I got a job. It’s in the accounting department of a trading company. The pay isn’t great, but it’s a good place to work. The people are nice and no one tells me what to do.” She paused for a moment, then continued. “And Mom, I made a friend. She’s a temp at the office. Her name is Sarah. She’s five years younger than me, but she’s so bright and laughs all the time. She says I live too quietly and is always trying to drag me out for drinks or to the movies or to go on a blind date. It’s crazy.”

Emily chuckled. “I haven’t gone on any dates. I told Sarah it’s only been a year since my divorce and I’m not ready to meet anyone yet. She said that’s fine, she’ll wait for me.” She looked at her mother’s face. “I think you’d really like Sarah if you woke up. She grew up in a single-parent home too, so she’s always saying how jealous she is that I have a mom.”

Just then, her mother’s eyelid twitched. Emily froze. She held her breath and stared intently at her mother’s face. A few seconds passed, but there was no further movement.

“I must have imagined it.”

Emily let out a small sigh. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. The room was quiet with only the rhythmic hiss of the life support machine.

“I’m not giving up, Mom,” she whispered as if to herself. “No matter how long it takes, I’ll keep coming.”

That night, Emily had a dream. A dream that her mother woke up. Her mother sat up in bed, smiling brightly, and said, “My dear, I’m craving some clam chowder.”

Emily cried and replied, “Okay, let’s go. I’ll buy you some.”

The two of them left the hospital and walked down a sun-drenched street. The sidewalks were lined with trees and golden autumn leaves rained down like light. Her mother held her hand tightly, just like when she was a child.

“Are you cold?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure, Mom. I’m not cold at all when I’m holding your hand.”

When she woke up, her pillow was damp with tears. Emily stared up at the dark ceiling of her basement apartment for a long time. It was still before dawn. She got up, washed her face, brushed her teeth, and put on the gray puffer jacket. It was a weekday. She had to go to work. Life had to go on.