I smoothed the wisps of gray hair from her forehead and kept my voice low:
"Mom, don't worry. I know what I'm doing."
She looked at me, her lips parted like she wanted to say more, but in the end she stayed silent.
When the bags were packed, we walked out together.
The cleaning crew had already arrived.
Two women in blue uniforms, masks on, rubber gloves pulled tight, were hauling disinfection equipment through the front door.
Cornelia stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, barking orders:
"I want every inch of this place sanitized."
"Especially the guest room. Spray it down multiple times. Throw out all the sheets and bedding."
Seth chimed in from beside her:
"Right, and the kitchen too. Get rid of all the pots and pans."
My mother's steps faltered.
The guest room was where she had slept for the past month. She washed those sheets every week and folded them with care.
The kitchen was where she had spent most of her time. Every pot and pan had been scrubbed until it shone.
But in Cornelia's eyes, and in Seth's, everything my mother had touched was filthier than garbage.
Mom let out a quiet sigh, said nothing, and walked out of the house without a word.