By Michelle Nussey

I quip with what I feel is a clear twinkle in my eye and I look up to expecting to see a glint of response in hers. Any twinkle that was there soon takes over and ends in a wet line down her face. A tear.

I am genuinely confused – we’d just been teasing each other a few minutes back. Light hearted teasing. I thought.

Her face crumples and though her reply is a statement it holds questions of her necessity.

The unexpectedness of this leaves me in silence. I look at her. My intention was of jest.

Her quick movements prove otherwise. She breaks our gaze and hurriedly grasps at various things that gave her a reason to be elsewhere. Scampers into my peripheral view and is gone from my sight.

I look at my father whose own questioning veils the relief that he isn’t involved. Is there also need in his eyes? He glances away.

I turn to find my mother standing in the pantry. Arms full of objects that don’t belong there, not moving, her eyes on the industrial sized Glad Wrap.

I call to her. No answer. She is quite still. Bewildered but not surprised, I ask what’s wrong. The voice that tries to null the question is slipping deeper underwater.

I call her over but she is enthralled with the Glad Wrap. Again I call. She responds immediately, relieved.

She fits neatly under my arm as it blankets her shoulders. Her head is on my chest and she is soothed. As if the plan all along was for me to be the one to take care of her.

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