By the time Mom got sick, Quentin and I were hanging on by one thin, frayed thread.
Her diagnosis hit like a truck.
Stage four. No real treatment.
Just “comfort care.”
I remember sitting in the hospital, staring at a beige wall, thinking, I am not ready to be the adultest adult in the family.
Then Quentin walked in.
He looked… different.
Sober. Cleaner. Hair trimmed.
Shirt not wrinkled.
He kissed Mom’s forehead and said, “Hey, Ma,” like everything was normal.
After she came home, he started showing up more.
He brought groceries. Drove her to appointments. Made her laugh at stupid game shows.
Mom looked at me over his shoulder once, smiling.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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