The hospital room smelled faintly of antiseptic and warm plastic, the kind of scent that clings to the air in places where people come face to face with the fragile edges of life. Margaret Lawson, seventy-eight years old, lay quietly in the narrow bed by the window while the late afternoon sunlight slipped through the blinds and painted long lines across the floor. Around her stood eight adults—her children—each of them successful in their own ways, each of them carrying their own schedules, responsibilities, and carefully constructed lives. Yet at that moment, none of them looked at their mother.
They were looking at the floor.
