me stories the way she did on the porch in Tuloma.
A trip like that sounded like the perfect thank-you. A way for her children to finally give her something big, something that said, We see you. We remember everything you did.
Then one night I walked past my parents’ bedroom and heard their voices, low and conspiratorial.
“It’s expensive,” my mother murmured. “The hotels, the tickets, everything. We can have Mom contribute. She’s got savings from all those years as a nurse.”
“She’ll want to help since it’s a