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.

We entered the kitchen. Inside, the house looked like the home of a lonely man—clean, but sloppy. A pot on the stove, a dishtowel on the back of a chair, a radio playing quietly in the background. On the table were a newspaper and an ashtray.

“Does Mom smoke?” I asked quietly.

– No, it’s mine – Wojtek shrugged.

My mother hated cigarette smoke. For years, she’d been asking my father, then Wojtek, to smoke outside. And here’s an ashtray on the kitchen table.

The three of us sat down. Mom remained silent. Wojtek sipped his coffee. I searched for words.

“Mom, do you want to go home?” I asked bluntly.

• I want.

“But she was supposed to be here until the end of August,” Wojtek set down his mug. “That’s what we agreed. I cook her food here, we sit in the garden in the evenings…”