Raymond hears weeping, sniffling, but he can’t see her—too dark. His hand searches the wall for the living room light switch.

In the sudden brightness, his mother cowers under a beige blanket. Raymond rushes over, anxiously, she needs a diaper change and swatting away his annoyance that she can’t—or won’t—get off the damn couch to use the toilet. Sometimes, he wishes she were someone else’s problem, now that she’s morphed into a shriveled speckled sweet potato with a sour smell.

“What’s wrong, Mom? Need the bathroom?”

“No, no. Just so many worries.” She retrieves a wadded tissue stuffed up her sweater sleeve. Raymond pushes over the trash can, then offers her some fresh Kleenex. She takes two, wiping her eyes with swollen fingers.

She’s swaying slightly, probably low blood pressure. Raymond leans over, lifting her feet onto the couch. He’d like to relax too, but he rarely has a minute to himself, now that she’s moved in and relies on him for everything: preparing her meals, washing her hair, even changing her Depends. Her monthly check doesn’t cover much, so he works remotely as a customer service rep, dealing with people bitchin’ about the cheap crap they bought, or because they forgot to insert batteries. One damn problem after another.

“I’ll make tea.”

His mother grabs his arm. Although her hand trembles, her grip’s surprisingly strong.

“To hell with tea, Raymond,” she whispers hoarsely, wagging a bony finger. “You were out late last night.”

“Yes. On a date—”

“Musta been a helluva date!”

“Mom!”

“Having intimacy? With someone you just met?” she growls.

“I’m a grown man!”

“Can’t bother to introduce her to your mother? Good Lord, Raymond!”

Raymond grins. It’s none of her damn business, but it’s nice she’s acting like a mother. Annoying but normal-annoying.

Better than her crying alone on the couch, like a decaying potato, oozing in the darkness.