My brother took my mother to the countryside for August – “let her have a break from the apartment building.” On Thursday, my mother called from a neighbor’s phone: she had run out of blood pressure medication, and “Wojtek couldn’t be bothered because he was angry.” I dropped the medication off on Friday. My mother was waiting at the gate with a bag.

– Lucynka, can you help me carry the bag to the car?

– Mom, you don’t have to…

“I have to. I’m not resting here. I’m making sure Wojtek doesn’t think I’m ungrateful.”

I looked at her—a seventy-eight-year-old woman who had pretended to be fine for three weeks so as not to offend her son. Who had packed a bag the day before and waited by the gate because she knew she couldn’t call a taxi to the countryside on her own.

I carried my bag to the car. Mom sat in the front seat and buckled her seat belt. Only then did she sigh—a long, deep sigh, as if she’d been holding her breath for three weeks.

Wojtek stood on the threshold. He didn’t approach or wave. He held a cup of coffee and looked at us. He looked like someone who wanted to apologize but didn’t know why.