Margaret's hospital room was on the fourth floor...a private room that the brothers had upgraded from the standard ward two weeks ago, without telling Eve until she'd arrived one day to find her mother in a room with actual sunlight and comfortable chairs and a view of a small garden courtyard.
When Eve had demanded to know why, Damon had shrugged and said: She's important to you, which makes her important to us. And that had been the end of the conversation.
The room was quiet when they arrived, the morning nurse just finishing her checks. Margaret was propped up against pillows, her eyes closed, her chest rising and falling with that careful, measured rhythm that Eve had learned meant she was conserving energy.
She looked smaller than she had even last week. The cancer had been relentless in its progression, taking more from her each day. Her skin was paper-thin, her hands folded on the blanket like fragile birds.
