Chapter 9
By the fourth week, Linda's health took a turn for the worse.
She started moaning every night, and around three or four in the morning, she'd suddenly start screaming. Not because she was awake, but because her body couldn't help it from the nerve pain.
No one in the house was getting any decent sleep.
Lucas began having nightmares, waking up in the middle of the night, crying and saying he kept seeing ghosts.
I held him tight, and we curled up together under the blankets.
From the next room, I could hear Richard coughing. His chronic bronchitis was acting up worse than ever lately.
Margaret was so tired during the day she could barely keep her eyes open, but she still insisted, "I've got this, you don't need to worry about me."
Wednesday night, I worked overtime and didn't get home until nine.
As soon as I opened the door, the smell of something burnt hit me.
In the kitchen, the pot was burnt to a crisp. Margaret was sitting on the living room floor, soaked in sweat, and Linda was half hanging off the edge of the bed. She'd taken a nasty fall.
"Margaret." I rushed over. "What happened?"
"Linda rolled over and fell off the bed. I couldn't lift her up," Margaret said, her voice shaking.
Linda must have weighed at least 140 pounds, and at sixty-three, Margaret was so thin and frail. There was no way she could lift her by herself.
I used every bit of strength I had to help Margaret get Linda back onto the bed.
Linda was sobbing and mumbling, drool running down her chin.
I went to the kitchen, turned off the stove, and set the burnt pot to soak in water.
When I got back, Margaret was still sitting on the floor, hands braced on her knees, gasping for air like she was about to pass out.
"This can't go on," I said, crouching down in front of her.
She didn't even look at me.
"You're over sixty. There's no way you can take care of her all by yourself," I said.
"Then you help me," she said.
I was taken aback for a moment.
"When you get home from work, help me move her and change her diaper. You're young, you've got the strength," she said.
"Margaret, I have to work during the day..."
"Have you ever seen a daughter-in-law as selfish as you?" she suddenly looked up, her eyes red and glaring at me. "Can't you help me out a little?"
I took a step back.
During the Eight years, no matter what I did, in her eyes, I was always selfish, immature, never good enough.
"Margaret, we should hire a caregiver. I'll pay for it. One thousand and three hundred dollars a month is enough for a full-time caregiver," I said.
"A stranger? Let a stranger touch my sister? Don't even think about it," she snapped.
I stood up. "Then I really can't help."
"You..."
"Margaret, I really can't help," I said, my voice so flat it sounded strange even to me. "I'm not made of iron, and neither is Lucas."
I walked into the bedroom and closed the door.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I pulled out my phone.
My bank balance: 15,700 dollars.
That was what I'd managed to stash away these past few years, plus two paychecks from my new job and some extra from my side hustle.
It was enough.
Enough for me and Lucas to get our own place.