Raphael
Trying to talk to my mother was heartbreaking. All my memories of my mother were of a woman who talked fast, talked loudly, and usually mixed in more Italian than English if she was really riled up. Now she struggled to get out even one word at a time. When she tried to string together several words, I could hardly understand her.
But she had made one thing abundantly clear. She didn’t want Bethany to leave. Mom had gone so far as to point her finger at me and shake it, like she was threatening me.
We sat down on the old sofa in the living room, facing the fireplace. We were both careful to keep a big space, the width of one cushion between us. Bethany sat stiffly, like she was sitting in church, her back so straight it looked like her neck might snap. Her fingers twisted nerv
