Every Sunday night I sit at my mother's kitchen table and fill her pill organizer for the week. Seven little doors, one for each day. I've done it long enough that my hands know the order without checking the bottles.
Tonight I let myself in with my key like always. The box was already on the counter. Already filled. Every door snapped shut.
I stood in the hallway outside her room deciding whether to knock, and that's when I heard her on the phone, laughing, thanking someone named Priya for doing the little boxes so she wouldn't have to keep asking me.
I didn't know there was a Priya. I didn't know there was a version of Sundays where I'm not the one who shows up.
I should be relieved. I've complained about this exact errand to three separate friends this month. I've timed my own resentment down to the minute I have to leave the house for it.
But I stood there in the hallway with my key still warm in my hand, and some small ugly part of me wanted to walk in, unsnap every door, and start over, just so there'd still be a reason for me to be the one who comes.