I’m pretty sure if they’d ask a thirty-year-old Melissa if that’s what she considers luck, she would’ve hurled something at them. The mother I knew would never have been found outside without a full face of makeup, yet here she is, looking nothing like her old self.

It’s not like I don’t want to come care for her. I used to drive here every day after work.

No, it’s the facility that has asked this of me. Understandably.

I brace myself for the moment her eyes meet mine. Every time I’m in this position, I feel like I’m sitting at a poker table, waiting for my opponent to reveal their cards.

Dull brown meets blue, and I know in an instant that today will be one of those days.

Still, I keep my chin up and say, “I’m sorry I couldn’t come see you last week.”

No reaction.

Actually, if there could be something less than none, this would be it. Like she’s staring at a blank wall but she’d rather be looking anywhere else.

I notice her shirt is put on backward. It’s something she keeps on doing, even when the nurses try to help her put it on properly. She’ll just remove it and put it back on like this.

With a clearing of my throat, I say, “So, I heard you had a good day today. Did you play bingo with Frances or Cormac?”

Her eyelids lower down slowly, a sloth-like blink. Then, her gaze narrows. It reminds me of when she’d catch me still up after she came back from her evening shift at the restaurant when I was a kid.

Not a good sign.

Her lips part for the first time since I got here. My shield is on. Her bullets won’t hurt me. I’m ready.

“What are you doing here?” The words come out raspy, nothing like the soft voice I heard her use when she had friends home and she let me drink bubbly apple juice with them. The cigarettes she smoked for years probably have something to do with it.

“What do you mean?” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. The last thing she needs is to feel threatened.

“Who are you and what are you doing in my house?”

My eyes close, only for a second. I need the respite.

God, I’m so naïve. Every time I think it won’t be painful, and every time, it is. As if her words find the cracks around my breast plate and make their way right to my chest.

“It’s me, Mom. Wren. Your daughter. I’ve come to visit you.”

Creases form around her lips as she purses them. “I don’t have a daughter.”

Air whooshes out of my lungs slowly.

It’s okay. It’s got nothing to do with you.