I stood in the doorway, a surge of adrenaline rushed through me. My mom was a light sleeper, and her not answering when I said her name was bad. I rushed to the lamp and turned on the light. I looked at her. She was gone. Her blue eyes were staring at nothing, and green vomit spilled out of her mouth, down her pillow, and pooled next to her. I screamed.
Police. Phone calls. Shock. I called my grandparents at four thirty in the morning and told them their youngest daughter was dead. The sound my grandma made still breaks into my head and goes straight into my heart.
Four days later, I sat in the place my mom died. I held her cat, hugging her tight and crying into her fur. She steadily purred into my chest as her fur soaked up my grief. I tried explaining that we would never see her mommy again, but I don’t think either of us understood.