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Her eyes darted away, prompting Sloane to place a hand on her shoulder. “She’s done that before, so I didn’t think too much of it, but then when it was time for her shower, I’d hardly started positioning her into the lift to get her to the chair when she started screaming at me. Telling me that I was trying to kill her, but Sloane, I wasn’t even touching her.”

When the woman started to cry, Sloane embraced her.

“I’m so sorry, Flor. It’s not you and there’s no excuse for her behavior. I completely understand if you don’t want to come back. You’ve been so patient with her as it is. Please let me put together a generous severance package and write you the glowing recommendation you deserve.”

Flor patted her back before stepping away and wiping her face with a tissue she pulled from the pocket of her scrubs.

“You’re a good daughter, Sloane. You’re very patient and loving.” Flor looked at the closed door to her mother’s room.

“Even if she doesn’t see it, others do. I will stay because I have a lot of compassion for her. She’s a deeply unhappy person and those are often the people who need the most kindness.”

Sloane shook her head. “You don’t have to do that. Your job is not to endure abuse.”

“My job is to care for the sick. There are many ways to be unwell.” Her eyes were kind despite being red and irritated.

“But I have arranged for the agency to send temporary cover.

Knowing when to seek respite care is the only way not to burn out.” She cupped Sloane’s cheek. “Think about that for yourself too, and I’ll be back in two weeks.”

After walking Flor out while continuously apologizing, Sloane returned to slay the dragon.

“Oh, thank God. I’ve been waiting for you,” her mother cried, mascara streaking her cheeks like warpaint.

Sloane tightened her jaw, holding on to her composure.

History dictated that her mother would make herself the victim, but it still triggered a deep-seated rage buried in Sloane’s guts.

“What happened?” she asked, sitting in a chair by her window overlooking the street rather than anywhere near her bed.

“That woman almost dropped me!”

Sloane held up her hand. “Don’t lie to me. She’s not getting fired and you’re not going to get your way. Do you want to try again?”

Like a petulant child, her mother crossed her arms over her chest and glared. When that didn’t get a reaction, she covered her face with a pillow and cried.

“You do recognize that whatever Harper said, or didn’t say, is not Flor’s fault, right? It’s not my fault. And you can’t lash out at people because you’re upset. You couldn’t do it

before you were paralyzed and you can’t do it now,” she said in as measured a tone as she could muster.

“How can you be so cold?” she cried, using the same crocodile tears Sloane had seen her entire life.

“Flor is coming back in two weeks. You will apologize, and if you don’t, or if you so much as look at anyone sideways, I’m leaving.”

Her mother stopped crying. “How can you threaten me with that? You promised to stay and take care of me.”

“And I have,” she replied, softening her tone in response to her mother’s change in demeanor. “And I will continue to do so, but only if you treat me and everyone else around you with respect.” Unable to stop the deluge of truth, Sloane got to her feet. “I stayed here to support you, but you have to do your part. You can’t use this to abuse or control people.

You’re not bed ridden, Mom. You have the means to adapt just about everything in your life. The doctor said you could re-learn how to drive with adaptive tools. With lifts you can get yourself out of bed, out of this room. You can do anything you want if you just try.” Sloane stopped when tears stung her eyes and rolled down her face.

“Honey, come here.” Her mother held out her hand, but Sloane knew better than to take it. She had to show her she was serious.

“I’m here to help you, Mom. But I’m not going to let you deplete me.” Sloane strode toward the door. “I’m moving to the guest house. I hope you can find the will to visit me there like I find the will to visit you here,” she added before closing the door and mu ing the angry tirade that followed.

The guest house was a tall, modern replica of the main house. Pushing open the frosted glass door, Sloane was met with a stale smell. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been inside since she moved out years ago, and no actual guest had stayed over in a decade.

Opening all the windows, Sloane set to work cleaning the ultra-modern, two-bedroom house complete with chef’s kitchen and laundry room. She was grateful for somewhere to put her nervous energy.

After washing the linens and clearing the dust, she decided to claim the bigger bedroom overlooking the pool and the flowering bougainvillea tree. It had always been her favorite part of the house. The only thing full of life and color in an otherwise sterile environment.