My Husband Put My Sick Mother on an Air Mattress and Said He Made the Rules, but What I Did Next Changed Everything

He had said: she’s not going to be here for long, right?

I had said: for as long as she needs to be.

He had said: I just need to know there’s an end date.

I had said: Gabriel, she has cancer. I don’t have an end date.

He had been quiet.

Then he had said: all right. Fine.

That was the conversation I had in mind when I told my mother I had talked to Gabriel.

The guest room on the first floor was the obvious choice.

It was directly across from the bathroom, which mattered enormously because chemotherapy produces a relationship with the bathroom that requires proximity, the specific urgent relationship of a body that is being treated with something powerful and that responds to that treatment in various unpleasant ways.

The room had a window that looked onto the backyard.

My mother had always liked the backyard.

We had a garden, which I maintained without particular skill but with genuine pleasure, and she would sometimes sit and watch me work in it when she visited, offering suggestions in the careful way of a woman who does not want to overstep but who cannot help knowing more about gardening than I do.