Her clothes had been stuffed in boxes in the back of the garage for years. We needed to get them out for her. But she couldn’t wear clothes that were that old, could she? What was she going to wear? Why hadn’t anyone thought of that?

“We didn’t bring her any clothes,” I blurted out.

Dad raised his eyebrows. “What?”

“She doesn’t have anything to wear.” Emotions bubbled their way to the surface. It was something so stupid to cry over, but I couldn’t help it.

Dad brought me to his chest and wrapped his arms tightly around me. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll find something for her to wear.”

I giggled through my tears. Meredith handed me a tissue from her purse. I blew my nose and let out a deep breath.

“Everyone ready?” Marcos asked.

Nobody answered, but we stood and followed him out of the room, then down a few short hallways. The hospital was as tiny as the town. Marcos stopped at room 28A. Our movements slowed behind him. He gave everyone a moment before knocking and pushing through the door.

I grabbed Dad’s arm and hung on to his bicep. Her room was filled with people, and everyone moved against the walls, providing a path to the bed for us. My heart leaped in my chest. The air left my lungs.

And then there she was.

Mom.

Her hair wasn’t blonde anymore, but a mousy gray with patches missing on top and long tattered strands falling down the middle of her back. Her radiant blue eyes, which had shone so brightly from her pictures, were sunken and shallow; her cheekbones were skeletal, like maybe there was cancer eating away at her insides. Angry scars marked the right side of her face.

That wasn’t Mom. It couldn’t be. We were in the wrong room.

I turned to Dad. He was staring at her, unmoving. She brought her hands to her face, covering her mouth with long, shaking fingers. She was smaller than me. How did that happen? She bore no resemblance to the woman whose picture I’d kept underneath my pillow until I was eight years old.

Nobody moved. For a second, nobody spoke, like we needed a moment of silence to recognize the significance of the moment, and then everyone talked at once, and activity swirled around me. Suddenly I was in front of her.

She reached out and stroked my face softly, like she couldn’t believe I was real. “Abbi,” she whispered, barely audible.

I hadn’t heard her voice in years, but the second I heard it, something inside me recognized her. “Mom.” My voice shook with emotion. Tears streamed down my face.

She pulled me close and wrapped her frail arms around me. I could feel each one of the bones in her back. Her ribs pressed against my chest. I was afraid I’d hurt her if I squeezed too hard. Her smell was unfamiliar. Nothing like the perfume she used to wear. She smelled like spoiled milk.