Not from her.
“Marissa,” Mom said, “what are you doing?”
I picked up the pen.
My fingers shook.
She noticed and mistook weakness for uncertainty.
“You’re on medication.
You’re emotional.
This is exactly why you shouldn’t be making big decisions right now.”
Daniel’s expression hardened almost imperceptibly.
“Her medical team has confirmed she is alert and capable of making decisions,” he said.
“If that changes, we stop.”
Mom stared at him.
“I’m her mother.”
I almost laughed, but it hurt too much.
“You remembered that today?”
She flinched.
For the first time since arriving, she glanced at the machines beside my bed as if she were finally noticing where we were.
“That’s unfair.”
“I called you ten minutes before they took me into surgery.”
“And I told you I was dealing with something.”
“Valerie’s rug.”
“Stop reducing it to that.”
“Then tell me what it was.”
Mom opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
I waited.
Daniel waited.
The monitor beside me continued its steady rhythm.
Finally Mom crossed her arms.
“Your sister felt rejected by you.
She was crying.
She needed me.”
“So did I.”
The words came out quietly.
That was what finally made her look away.
Not the lawyer.
Not the documents.
Not the hospital equipment.
Four words she could not argue with.
So did I.
I signed the first document where Daniel indicated.
Mom moved toward the bed.
“Wait.”
Daniel placed one hand lightly over the remaining papers—not hiding them, simply making it clear that she would not take them.
“What exactly are you changing?” she demanded.
I answered.
“You’re no longer the person I want making medical decisions for me if I can’t make them myself.”
Her face went blank.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“I’m your mother.
Who else would do it?”
“Someone who answers the phone.”
That landed.
Mom looked toward Daniel.
“Him?”
