“Don’t turn off the light, sweetheart,” Mrs. Mercedes Whitaker whispered. “My children are coming for me tonight.”
You stood beside the wall switch in Room 8 of St. Raphael’s Senior Care Home outside San Antonio, Texas, with your hand frozen in midair. The clock above the dresser read 11:46 p.m. Rain tapped against the window like nervous fingers. Mrs. Whitaker sat upright in bed wearing a navy-blue dress, black shoes, fake pearls, and red lipstick so carefully applied it almost broke your heart.
She looked ready for a family dinner.
But you knew the truth.
She was dying.
Her white hair was braided over one shoulder, thin and soft like silk thread. Her breathing had become shallow. Her hands, once strong enough to knead bread, sew curtains, and raise three children alone after her husband died, now rested weakly on top of her blanket.
“Mrs. Whitaker,” you said gently, “you need to rest.”
