Page 83 of None Of Your Business

“If you want it,” she says. “It’s yours anyway.”

I turn my head toward the window and blink hard until the sting in my eyes subsides.

When I look back, she’s already closing the box.

∞∞∞

The medication cabinet sits above the refrigerator, secured with a small combination lock. The only person who doesn’t know the combination is sitting in the living room.

I spin the dial until it clicks open on the final digit.

Inhaling a steadying breath, I stand there with the door ajar.

It’s the same private ritual every time I have to do this.

Water first. Then I count the pills into my palm, lock the cabinet again, and carry everything into the living room.

“You shouldn’t have to do this.”

She offers some variation of that sentence every week.

“I hate that my youngest child has to dole out my medication like I’m a toddler.”

“You’re not a toddler.”

“I just wish things were different.” An edge creeps into her tone. “I wish for once someone would let me manage my own medication.”

“You know why we don’t.”

“I am not a child, Rowan!”

Her hand moves before I realize what she’s doing, knocking the glass from mine.

It catches the corner of the coffee table and shatters, sending water and glass across the rug.

“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry.” She’s already moving forward, reaching for me and the mess at the same time. “I didn’t mean—Rowan, I’m so sorry.”

“Mom, don’t move. There’s glass everywhere.” My hands are shaking as I lower myself to my knees and start gathering the larger pieces. “It’s fine. I promise. Just let me clear this up.”

“I shouldn’t have raised my voice at you.”

“You’re allowed to be frustrated.”

“Not at you.”

I keep my attention fixed on the glass because if I look at her, I’m not sure I can keep it together.

“Never at you,” she whispers.

I set the last large pieces of glass on the coffee table and reach beneath it for the dustpan.

“I’ll get it,” Mom says.

“I’ve got it.”

“Rowan, please.”

“I know you can do it.” I glance up at her. “Please just let me.”