Sima bristles. You would think she was the one agitating her mother. She, who had taken the entire burden of care on her shoulders. Not that she’d had the choice
She locks the wheelchair and leans forward to adjust her mother’s scarf.
“Nem megyek!” Her mother screams for the hundredth time that morning, as she starts tearing at her neatly combed sheitel. “I’m not going! I’m not going.”
Sima grabs the thin wrists. “Mommy, Anyuka,” she soothes. “It’s okay. We’re going to a good place.”
“Nem megyek!” Mommy starts up again as soon as she hears the word “going.”
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