I accepted money to act like I was an elderly woman’s son because I was desperate to keep my own mother alive. But then the woman I was deceiving began holding my hand as if I truly belonged to her, and after she d:ied, the nursing home informed me that she had left one last request meant only for me.

The clock on the dashboard showed 11:47 when I eased my delivery van against the curb outside my mother’s apartment building. Rain smeared the streetlights into stretched yellow streaks. I remained there for a few seconds, doing math in my head, taking prescriptions away from rent, arriving at the same answer that never worked.

I picked up the grocery bag and the little paper pharmacy sack, then climbed all three flights.

Mom opened the door before I could knock, just like she always did.

“You shouldn’t be out this late, dear.”

“Ma, I’m fine. Brought your blood pressure pills and that soup you like.”

She cupped my face between both hands. Her palms felt warm, the same warmth I had known all my life.

“You look tired, Jeremy.”

“I’m okay, Ma.”

I was not okay.

The following morning, I squeezed in a coffee shop delivery between shifts. That was when a man lowered himself into the seat across from me without asking permission.

He looked rich.

“You’re Jeremy, right? A friend of mine mentioned you. Said you could use some extra income.”

“Who’s your friend?”