On good days, Mom sings as she cooks luxurious breakfasts. We run downstairs to kisses and hugs and a warm kitchen.
Today, the house is quiet and cold, filled with a grey fog that’s almost visible.
I slip into her bedroom to check on her.
“Beth,” she sobs. ” I’m lost – drowning in my own dark ocean.”
I hold Mom tight and rock her, then go downstairs to pour cold cereal into her hand-painted bowls.
“Bobby, Sookie, come eat.”
“I’ll stay home today. You two go on to school, but don’t tell anyone our troubles.”
“Mom, please come back,” I whisper.