Page 23 of Remain

I press my fingers to the edge of the photo, grounding myself.

Another.

The scene changes.

This one isn’t in the community center.

It’s a hospital room. The room is all white walls and harsh light, softened only by Christmas decorations taped crookedly to the window. A tree no taller than a nightstand twinkles beside the bed, where my mother sits propped up by pillows, the IV line visible against her wrist. She looks small, so small and frail, but she isn’t alone.

Mrs. Kincaid stands at the foot of the bed, alongside Mrs. Donnelly, while Mrs. Levin sits in a chair pulled close, her cardigan buttoned wrong as she holds my mother’s hand. I can read the fear in her eyes just from the photo. There are wrapped gifts spilling over every available surface all over chairs, windowsills, even the floor.

My mother is smiling. The real smile. The kind she saved for people she loved. It’s not the smile she forced herself to make near the end, for everyone else, when she was uncertain of what would come next but tried to remain brave.

“Everyone kept showing up for her, but I wasn’t there.” I hold the photo tightly, grief and guilt swallowing me whole.

Carol wraps her arms around me tightly. “I meant it when I said she wasn’t lonely. And don’t think for a second you weren’t there. We didn’t know how fast the end was going to come. We all thought we had more time.”

“Carol,” I whisper. “Who took all of these photos? I’m so grateful for them. That I can see the moments I missed, that I didn’t even know existed.”

She goes still beside me.“That’s all Erik.”

I look at her. “Erik?”

She nods. “He started taking them years ago.”

My pulse stutters. “Why?”

Carol’s gaze drifts to the photos in my lap. “He said someone should remember it properly. That it would matter someday.”

She pauses. “To you.”

Tears stream steadily down my face.

“He was there every year,” Carol continues. “Every year he took photos of whatever he could. Every available moment, he was right in there with his camera. He printed them himself. Labeled the dates. Never made a fuss about it. He wanted you to see your mother through the years. He wanted her to see what was unfolding in her absence. He always made sure she was apart of it.”

I look down again, seeing what I missed before, the consistency. The same careful eye. The way my mother is always caught in moments of giving, of listening, of joy.

“For how long?” I ask. “How many years has he been doing this?”

Carol exhales. “Every year since you left.”

My chest aches.

“I didn’t know,” I whisper.

“You weren’t meant to,” she says gently. “Your mom didn’t want this to feel like something you owed. She didn’t want you to feel like you needed to come back. She wanted you to be free. It’s all she ever wanted for you.”

“And Erik?”

She smiles, placing her hand tenderly on my knee. “That’s a question only he can answer for you.”

I place the photos back into the box, my hands shaking now. They feel heavier than paper. Heavier than memory. Erik didn’t just show up this year like I did. He’s been here, all along.

Carol squeezes my hand. “You don’t have to do all of this tonight.”

“I do,” my voice waivers. “Tomorrow there won’t be time.”

She nods, understanding this isn’t really about boxes.