Mom temporarily moved in to live with me, and a month later, I noticed her clothes started disappearing…

A month ago, Mom temporarily moved in to live with me. I was happy—we hadn’t seen each other in a while, and I missed her.

But days gradually turned into weeks, and conversations about when she would return home were carefully avoided by Mom.

The day before yesterday, I noticed that her favorite sweater was missing from the closet. Yesterday—a few more items. At first, I thought she had simply moved them to another place, but the worry wouldn’t leave me.

Yesterday, I noticed her favorite sweater vanished from the closet. The day before that—two more things. This morning, I decided to ask directly, I opened the door to her room and froze on the threshold. The suitcase was half-packed, and Mom was sitting on the bed quietly crying, clutching to her chest…

Our shared photo. I must be about three, I’m in her arms, we are both laughing. I was about to ask what happened, but she flinched when she heard the door creak, and I realized—she didn’t want me to see this. She quickly wiped her tears, hid the photo in her robe pocket: “Oh, it’s you. Good morning.” Her voice trembled, although she tried to speak normally.

“Mom, have you been crying?” I entered the room. “No, not at all. Just tired eyes.” She stood up and turned towards the window. I looked at the suitcase: “Are you packing?”—”Yes, it’s about time. You must be tired of me already.”

Something was off in her voice. Not relief, not ease. Some kind of resignation.

“Mom, what about the clothes? They seem to be disappearing.” She didn’t turn around: “I’m taking them little by little. Back to my place. So I won’t have to lug everything at once on the last day.”—”When do you find the time? I haven’t seen you leaving with bags.”—”In the mornings, while you’re at work. I quickly go and come back.”

I felt it was a lie. Every cell in me knew it. But why?

In the evening, when Mom went to take a shower, I took her phone. It was lying on the kitchen table, unlocked. I knew it was wrong, but something inside told me—I needed to check.

Recent calls. Hospital. Three times today. I opened the messages. The doctor’s message came in two days ago: “The results are ready. Come for a consultation on Wednesday. We need to discuss further treatment.”

Treatment. What treatment?

I scrolled further. A month ago—a chat with a friend: “I can’t tell her. How do I tell my girl that I have cancer? She’s alone, without a family. She’ll worry, drop everything, start taking care of me. I don’t want to be a burden. I just want to be close, while there’s still time.”

The phone slipped from my hands and fell onto the table. I grabbed the countertop to stay upright. Cancer. Mom has cancer. And she kept silent all this month.

The bathroom door opened. Mom came out, saw me—pale, with her phone in hand. Understood everything instantly. Stopped in the middle of the corridor.

I went up to her and hugged her. Tightly, like I did when I was a child and afraid of a thunderstorm. She stroked my back and kept repeating: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to upset you.”

We sat on the couch. I held her hand and listened. The diagnosis was made three months ago. A tumor. Surgery is needed, but it’s complicated, with no guarantees. The doctors said there are chances, but it’s fifty-fifty. She decided to come to me before checking into the hospital. Just to be close. To see me. To remember every little detail.

“What about the clothes?” I asked through tears. She smiled sadly: “I’m giving them away. To neighbors, acquaintances. Thought if anything… so you won’t have to sort through them later.” If anything. She was preparing for the worst and doing it quietly, to spare me.

“Why didn’t you tell me from the start?” I squeezed her hand tighter. “I just wanted to spend time normally. Not as a sick person with her daughter, but as a mom with her girl. Drinking tea, watching TV, chatting about nonsense. I was afraid that if I told you, you’d look at me differently. With pity. And I don’t need pity.”

I hugged her again. We sat like that for a long time, both quietly crying.

Yesterday, we unpacked the suitcase together. Took everything out, hung it back in the closet. Mom was crying and laughing at the same time. I made an appointment for her on Wednesday with the doctor, took three weeks off work. At night, I lay there thinking—she stayed silent for a month because she was afraid of being a burden. Prepared to leave quietly to make it easier for me. And I was annoyed that she was staying longer, mentally counting the days until her departure. Now, every day with her is a gift, and I don’t know how many are left. The surgery is in three days, and the doctors promise nothing. Tell me, how do you live with the thought that you almost missed the last times with the dearest person because you didn’t ask the right question in time?

***

A month ago my mother temporarily moved in with me. At first I was happy — we hadn’t seen each other in a long time, I thought we would drink tea and talk in the evenings. But the days gradually turned into weeks, and my mother carefully avoided conversations about when she would go back home. The day before yesterday I noticed that her favorite sweater was missing from the closet. Yesterday, two more items were gone. This morning I decided to ask her directly, opened the door to her room, and froze in the doorway. A suitcase stood half-packed, and my mother sat on the bed, quietly crying, clutching to her chest…
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