Chapter 2 - The Morning Performance
The morning sun filtered through the kitchen blinds, painting horizontal stripes across the spotless white countertops. Abigail was humming softly as she poured freshly brewed coffee into two ceramic mugs, looking radiant in a lavender silk blouse.
She turned around, flashing a warm, sympathetic smile as I walked into the kitchen.
“Morning, honey,” she said, handing me a mug. “Did you sleep okay? I know jet lag from the transport flight is brutal.”
“I’m fine,” I said, offering a tight, convincing smile of my own. “Just thinking about today. Are you sure Dr. Henderson’s clinic is the right place for this? Mom seemed pretty agitated last night.”
Abigail’s expression immediately shifted into the picture of burdened martyrdom. She sighed, resting a hand against her chest. “Samuel, you weren’t here. You didn’t see the kitchen knives she left out on the living room floor, or the way she wandered down to the highway in her nightgown last Tuesday. It’s breaking my heart, but we have no choice. She’s a danger to herself.”
“Of course,” I said softly, staring down into my coffee cup so she wouldn’t see the flash of pure disgust in my eyes. “You’ve handled everything so well, Abigail. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”
Relief washed over her features like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. She reached out and squeezed my arm. “We’re a team, babe. Always.”
At that exact moment, footsteps shuffled slowly down the hallway.
We both turned. Mom appeared in the doorway, wearing an oversized cardigan, her hair unbrushed, staring blankly at the wall with a vacant, unfocused expression. She raised a trembling hand to her forehead, muttering something incoherent about the weather in nineteen-eighty-four.
I watched in silent awe. Mom wasn't just acting confused; she was delivering an Academy Award-winning performance of cognitive decline.
Abigail shot me a quick, triumphant glance—*See? I told you*—before stepping forward to guide my mother gently toward a chair at the dining room table.
“Good morning, Martha,” Abigail said, her voice dripping with patronizing sweetness. “Are you ready for your special doctor’s appointment today?”
Mom blinked slowly, looking right through Abigail as if she were a ghost. “Where’s my husband? Is lunch ready yet?”
May you like
Abigail looked at me, shaking her head with a sorrowful sigh, completely unaware that directly beneath her chair, the digital voice recorder was capturing every smug, condescending breath she took.
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