And then my body began to betray me
The fatigue.
The numbness.
The dizziness.
The doctor said it softly, like he was afraid the words themselves might break me:
“Early-stage multiple sclerosis.”
I went home and sat alone in the quiet house I had insisted on keeping, shaking so badly I could barely hold my phone.
That night, I finally messaged her.
I told her I was sick.
I told her I was scared.
I told her I needed her.
She called the next day.
Her voice was steady. Controlled. Almost cold.
“Funny how you only want family when YOU need something,” she said. “That sounds like your responsibility, not mine. I’m not your free nursing home.”
The silence after those words was unbearable.
“I’m your mother,” I whispered.
“And I was your daughter when I asked for help,” she replied.
Then she hung up.
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