Then she carried on packing, as if nothing had happened.
That was my mother.
She couldn't even cry without hiding it, terrified I'd worry.
I walked over and wrapped my arms around her.
"Mom, don't cry."
"You've already shed too many tears for me in this life."
My father died young.
She raised me alone.
When I was seven, I got so sick no hospital would take me. My mother held me in her arms and knelt in front of a doctor, sobbing, begging him to save me.
In the end, he agreed to try.
For weeks I hovered at death's door. She lived every hour in terror, her face never dry, afraid each breath I took would be my last.
I swore to myself then that I would never make my mother cry again.
And here I was, breaking that promise.
She wiped her face with the back of her hand and sniffed:
"Prudence, I'm sorry. It's my fault. I'm useless, and now you can't even hold your head up in this house."
I shook my head, looked her straight in the eye:
"Mom, you are the best mother in the world. I mean that."
"Trust me. This isn't over."
She searched my face, her eyes full of worry:
"Prudence, please don't pick a fight with them. I'm scared you'll be the one who gets hurt."