Page 172 of Rival Hero

Her shoulders fall as she stops trying to save face.

And I hold her and rock her gently.

Like she did when I was a little boy and upset about something I no longer remember.

Life is peculiar, isn’t it? One day, you’re the vulnerable one, seeking your mother’s comfort and protection. And the next, you’re comforting her. Soon, the roles of parent and child blur, growing hazier, until they’re ultimately reversed.

Is there anything more bittersweet than knowing the strong, vivacious parent you once thought was invincible will look at you as their only lifeline?

The cruel swing of the pendulum can’t be stopped no matter how hard we try.

Or in my case, it can’t be stopped no matter how deep we bury our heads in the sand.

After she’s soaked up all the comfort from me that she can, she exhales a shaky breath, and I let her out of my hold.

“I talked to Caroline the other night,” she starts, placing her palm on my chest. “Please, don’t fight me on this. I’ve made my decision, and it’s not the one you want.”

“Mom, don’t,” I warn, but she shakes her head at me, a steely resolve set on her features.

“Not right now, but soon. Okay? She told me what I did, and I know I’m getting worse. I can feel everything slipping away.”

“Mom, please. We don’t have to talk about this now.”

When she speaks again, her tone is clipped and severe. “You never want to talk about it. But I don’t know how long I have, Calvin. I need to tell you this while I still can.”

Nodding, I bite my tongue and let her continue.

She’s right.

Her moments of lucidity are becoming less frequent.

Voice shaky, she pleads her case. “It may be just a job change I forget today. Tomorrow, it might be a memory from my childhood or even the day before. Or all of my mother’s recipes. But how long until it’s more?”

“I will move in here, okay? I can take care of you. I’ll work from home, and if I need to leave, I’ll arrange for someone to sit with you.”

“It’s too much. I won’t burden you like that. You heard the doctor. Soon, I won’t be able to dress myself. Bathe myself. Make it to the bathroom. It gets worse and worse until I’m gone. I can’t let you go through that.”

“I don’t mind, Ma. I want to. You’d do the same for me. I won’t turn my back on you. I’ll take care of you.”

“Calvin. No.”

Two words. Final.

And utterly devastating.

“What do you want me to do then, Ma? Tell me what to do.”

I’ll do anything.

A watery smile takes over her face, tears streaming down. “Live your life. Be happy. Get married. Have kids like you’ve always wanted. And when the time comes, you have to let me go.”

Heart shattered and soul defeated, all I can do is nod and try not to cry.

As if on cue, music begins playing. Softly at first, but then it increases in volume.

Startled and confused, my mother looks toward the table, where Mia’s laptop sits open. That’s where the music is coming from.

“Come Fly with Me” by Frank Sinatra. One of my Ma’s all-time favorites.

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