Eleven years later, a hospital nurse called while I was working at my office desk and asked whether I was Abigail Miller’s daughter.
“Your mother has suffered a severe stroke,” the nurse said over the phone.
“Her condition is critical, so you should come to St.
Jude Regional Hospital as soon as possible.”
By the time I arrived at the hospital room, medical machines surrounded Mom, and she could barely speak.
I took her frail hand in mine and apologized for all the long years of distance between us.
Her fingers tightened weakly around mine, but her clear eyes remained painfully sharp as she looked at me.
“I am here now, Mom,” I said gently.
“You do not have to worry about anything anymore because I will handle the house, the bills, and everything else.”
Her mouth moved several times before any actual sound emerged from her throat.
“Do not abandon Gabriel, so promise me right now,” Mom whispered weakly.
