After the final lyric, Mom laughs, laughs so hard that by the end she’s wheezing, leaning on thecountertop, her forehead pained. “Sorry. I just feel so good these days that I forget …”
“You’re still sick,” I say, remembering. “God, Mom, I’m so sorry, I …”
She waves me quiet with the ladle. “Now, none of that. I haven’t even told you my diagnosis yet.” Shestraightens, smiles a little as if to remind herself, and exhales. “Dr. Wicker is confident that withtreatment and no smoking, I’ll make a full recovery.”
As I help Mom over to a nearby leather armchair, I say carefully, “No smoking.”
Mom laughs wheezily. “I know what you’re thinking—how many times did I try to switch over to e-cigarettes or Nicorette or go cold turkey? You know what I think
