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.

“Wojtuś, you stay at the neighbor’s in the evenings,” Mom said calmly, without reproach. “I stay alone.”

– Well, because Zdzisiek invites me, I won’t refuse.

– You can’t refuse Zdzieś, but you can’t get me a prescription.

That was the first sentence I heard my mother express anger. Quiet, controlled, and years of developed anger. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t accuse. She stated a fact.

Wojtek blushed. Not from anger—from embarrassment. I could see it clearly. He bit his lip, as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know what.

“I’ve been here all year alone,” he finally said. “Alone. No one comes, no one calls. I thought Mom would come, it would be more normal. But Mom just sits there, waiting for you to call.”

I realized then something I didn’t want to understand. Wojtek didn’t take my mother to the countryside so she could rest. He took her so he wouldn’t be alone.