“Could you move everything back a week?”
I looked at the calendar beside my laptop. My leave had been approved. Mom’s appointments had been arranged around our dates.
“I can’t move this for you,” I said.
She eventually decided to take unpaid time off. Somehow, by the end of the call, I felt responsible for her boss being disappointed in her.
The night before we left, I packed Mom’s labeled medications separately and printed routes, hospital and pharmacy locations, and restaurant information. At 5:30 the next morning, I was awake. By 6:15, I had checked the bottles again and put the medication schedule in that red folder.
At seven, I drove to my parents’ house, where we were meeting before loading Dad’s SUV. Mom hugged me at the door in comfortable pants and a light sweater. She often felt cold, even in summer. Dad sat with a fishing magazine and his coffee while I packed road snacks, including sugar-free choices for Mom.
We were supposed to leave at eight for a six-hour drive. At 8:15, Dad called Melissa. She said she needed thirty more minutes. He told her to drive safely.
She arrived at 9:10 with designer sunglasses, an oversized tote, a suitcase, and a coffee she had stopped to buy. Dad rearranged the bags to fit hers. Mom smiled because we were finally together. I checked the chargers one more time.
By 9:30, we were on the road. Melissa claimed the front seat because she got carsick in back. I sat beside Mom, listening to Dad’s classic rock station and Melissa’s work stories.
At a diner in Massachusetts around noon, I suggested a grilled chicken salad for Mom. Melissa accused me of making even lunch into a set of rules.
“The salad sounds good,” Mom said before I could answer.
Melissa sent her burger back because it was cooked more than she wanted. While we waited another fifteen minutes, Mom grew tired. She had taken her noon medication and assured me the sitting was wearing her out, nothing more.
After lunch, Melissa slept up front while Mom and I played word games. For a while, I enjoyed myself. I hadn’t brought my family to Maine to prove anything. I wanted the shared breakfasts, the conversation without television, and a little time when Mom could feel like herself instead of a patient.
We reached the cabin around 4:30. The road narrowed through the pines before opening onto a log house above the lake. There was a wraparound deck, wide windows, and a small dock with a rowboat tied to it.
Mom stood beside the SUV and smiled without being prompted. All four of us stayed there for a moment, looking at the water. I thought the delays might turn out to be a small price for getting us somewhere this peaceful.
Inside were three bedrooms and two bathrooms. Melissa claimed the room facing the lake. Our parents took the master. Dad asked whether I would be all right in the small back bedroom, already carrying their bags toward the hallway.
It had a twin bed and a view of the driveway. I unpacked there, then arranged Mom’s pill bottles, monitor, and schedule on the kitchen counter.
Dad grilled chicken and vegetables that evening. When Mom thanked Melissa for coming up with the vacation, I let the omission pass. The lake was turning gold, everyone was eating together, and I wanted to enjoy the dinner more than I wanted credit for arranging it.
The next morning, I made whole-grain pancakes with fresh berries. Mom came into the kitchen at 7:30 looking more rested than she had in weeks.
“You didn’t have to make all this,” she said.
I handed her coffee. “I wanted to.” Cooking breakfast with Mom beside me and the lake beyond the window was something I enjoyed.
We had agreed to breakfast at eight and a beginner-friendly hike at nine. The loop took about two hours, and I wanted us out before the heat. Dad planned to fish afterward.
At 8:30, Melissa’s door was still closed. Dad said to let her sleep because she worked hard. Mom set aside pancakes. At 9:15, Dad suggested leaving without her, but Mom worried she would be disappointed.