But Mom’s final words gave me something the receipts never could.
They reminded me why I had stayed.
Not for the pension.
Not to prove I was the better child.
Not because I wanted anyone to praise me.
I stayed because when illness came and every other door seemed to close, mine remained open.
And when Mom looked at me at the end of another exhausting day and thanked me for not leaving her alone, I knew there were some things that could never be measured on a bank statement.
Taking care of her had cost money.
It had cost sleep.
It had cost time.
But it had never been a business.
It was love expressed in the least glamorous way possible: by being there when being there became difficult.
