Every December 20th, my mother and I shared one perfect ritual: a giant Hershey’s bar, two cups of coffee, and the same park bench. She passed away in October. And when I went alone for the first time, a man was already sitting there, holding a Hershey’s bar. He looked at me and said, “Your mom kept a secret from you.”
The machines beside Mom’s bed hummed softly, steady and indifferent.
I sat in the hard plastic chair, rubbing lotion into my mother’s hands the way the nurse had shown me. Her skin felt thinner than it should have—fragile, almost translucent.
Then Mom cleared her throat.
“I think I made a mistake.”
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