When her train returned the following Monday, I waited on the platform holding her favorite hot chocolate. As passengers stepped off, I noticed a frail elderly woman struggling with an enormous black suitcase, and it took several seconds to realize that she was my mother.
Her cheeks appeared hollow, her wrists were painfully thin, and her clothes hung loosely from her shoulders. I was so shocked by her appearance that I dropped the drink and hurried toward her.
“Mom, what happened? You look terribly sick.”
“It’s just been a little stomach trouble, sweetheart. I haven’t felt much like eating.”
During the drive, Mom stared silently out the window, refusing to discuss her visit. Once home, she dragged the black suitcase into her bedroom, locked the door, and began crying.
I stayed overnight on her living room couch because I couldn’t bear leaving her alone. That evening, I called the number she had provided for Margaret, hoping her friend could explain what had happened.
