He Signed Her Away

"Let's stop treatment. The kid's still little. It's too much of a burden." My motherinlaw had burns over 90 percent of her body.

Outside the trauma bay, my husband, eyes red, insisted we stop treatment.

She'd rushed in from the country overnight just to make pierogi for her son, and then she forgot to shut off the gas valve and got caught in an explosion.

I couldn't believe it. "Mom was making pierogi for you!" He said impatiently, "There's nothing we can do. That's just your mom's fate." Oh. So he thought his mom was my mom.

Chapter 1 Every Wednesday, my home felt like a holiday. All because my husband loved pierogi. Not the kind from the supermarket freezer.

They had to be handmade, thin dough, generous filling, the kind that bursts with buttery juice in your mouth at the first bite. My mother, Ms. Jean Arnett, took that as gospel.

Rain or shine, first thing every Wednesday morning, she knocked on our door right on time, loaded down with bags big and small.

The bags always held handpicked potatoes, cheddar, and fresh onions she'd bought at the farmers market that very morning.

Sometimes she'd switch things up, cabbage and pork, mushroom and chicken, but Brady's favorite was still the classic potato and cheese. "Storebought filling isn't clean.

The kind you chop yourself tastes better," she'd say, tying on her apron. Mixing the dough, making the filling, rolling out the rounds, folding and pinching.

Every move flowed smoothly, a skill honed over decades. In under two hours, the freezer was packed full of plump white pierogi.

When Brady got home from work and saw pierogi, his whole face lit up.

He'd boil a big plate, top them with buttered onions, dip them in sour cream, and eat every last one. "Mom, thank you for all your hard work!

You treat me better than my own mom does!" he always said. My mom would just laugh. "As long as you like them. What hard work? Kendra could never manage this stuff." Right.

My fault again. I'd tried learning to make pierogi too, but mine always came out lopsided. Brady tried them once and never wanted my pierogi again.

The whole scene was warm and peaceful, and for the past six months or so, it had been a fixture in our house.

Until, somehow, word of it reached my motherinlaw in the country, hundreds of miles away. The call came in the evening.

Brady picked up, said "uhhuh" a few times, and his face turned a little strange. He covered the phone and slipped out onto the balcony.

I could faintly hear my motherinlaw's voice climbing on the other end, thick with her country accent. "What? So only your motherinlaw's pierogi taste good?

You grew up on mine, and now they ain't good enough?" Brady lowered his voice with an apologetic laugh. "Mom, what are you talking about?

They're both good, both good!" "Talk is cheap!" Her voice cut right through. "You just wait!" She hung up with a click.

Brady came back in scratching his head. "Mom's really something. The older she gets, the more stubborn she gets.

I said one thing in passing, and she takes it seriously." "That's what you get for being greedy." I rolled my eyes at him and didn't think much of it. It was hundreds of miles.

Was she really going to fly over for a mouthful of pierogi? I underestimated my motherinlaw's competitive streak.

I also underestimated a mother's determination to win back her son's stomach. Today was Wednesday again. The doorbell wouldn't stop ringing. When I opened the door, I froze.

Standing outside was my motherinlaw, Peggy Cobb. She was travelworn, her eyes bright, her face full of that Ifinallymadeitintime thrill.

In her hand was a big woven basket holding a few jars of homemade sauerkraut. "Mom?" My voice cracked in shock. "What are you doing here? You didn't even call.

Brady just left for work." Chapter 2 "I came to make pierogi for my boy!" she said in her loud voice, already squeezing her way in.

As luck would have it, my mom arrived at the door right then too, carrying potatoes and cheese. The two old women came facetoface in the doorway.

My motherinlaw glanced at the groceries in my mom's hands and lifted her chin. "Well, Jean's here!

My boy still likes my pierogi best!" "No need for you to make the trip every week anymore. I'm here now!

This job's mine!" My mom's smile stiffened for a second, but she stayed as goodnatured as ever. "You're right, Peggy. Brady's always going on about your sauerkraut filling.

Since you're here, I'll head home." "Mom," I said, feeling bad, and caught her arm. "You're already here." "It's fine." My mom patted my hand and said quietly, "Your motherinlaw came all this way.

Let her do it. Don't stir up trouble." With that, she turned and went downstairs. A victor's smile spread across my motherinlaw's face.

She briskly rolled up her sleeves, took over the kitchen, and set the pots and pans clanging. "Kendra, don't just stand there. Take the kid to preschool.

Don't be late." She waved the rolling pin she'd just found, shooing me out, a dismissive edge in her voice. "My secret recipe ain't something I'm letting you learn." I checked the time.

She was right, it was almost time to go. "Mom, you know how to use the gas stove, right?

Turn that valve tight, and make sure you shut it off when you're done," I said before leaving, still uneasy. Back home she still used a wood stove or an old propane tank.

She might really not be familiar with a builtin gas range like this one. "I know, I know! Quit your fussing! I've been using fire my whole life back home.

You think I can't handle this? Go on!" She waved me off impatiently, water already splashing as she rinsed the sauerkraut.

I left with Nellie, my stomach in knots. "Mommy, will Grandma Peggy's pierogi taste better than Grandma Jean's?" Nellie asked, turning up her little face. "They're both good," I answered absently, leading her toward preschool.

My husband and I were college sweethearts. He was the classic hardworking poor kid, the kind who studied his way out of a dirtpoor backwater and into college.

I remember how in college he was always alone at the library, and in winter he didn't even own a decent down coat. My family was local. Both my parents were high school teachers.

We weren't rich, but we were a lot better off than his family. We got married right after graduation. My parents never looked down on him for coming from the country.

If anything, they thought the boy had it hard, and they were always helping out our little family, openly and quietly.

My parents covered more than half the down payment on this condo. Brady's family chipped in a token five thousand dollars.

Because of that, my motherinlaw always believed her son was the one going places, and my family had been scrambling to marry up.

As for my motherinlaw out in the country, I barely saw her a few times a year. On the rare occasions we went back for Christmas, she always found something wrong with me.

Vegetables not washed clean enough, all the clothes tossed in the dryer, getting up too late… Every word hinted that I was a spoiled city girl, not good enough for her son who'd made something of himself.

Every time we came back from her place, it took me days to recover. This time she'd just swooped in. Make pierogi, my foot.

She'd obviously heard my mom came every week, felt oneupped, and was determined to settle who was better.

My motherinlaw's face, domineering and somehow a little unfamiliar, kept flashing before my eyes. Nothing would go wrong, would it? Could she really handle that gas stove?

After I dropped Nellie off, the more I thought about it, the more uneasy I got, and I practically ran home. Only one thought in my head: please, don't let anything happen.

Chapter 3 As I turned the last corner, my heart dropped. Outside my building, a dense crowd had gathered, all craning their necks, pointing up and talking.

The shrill wail of fire engines grew closer, and a fire hose was blasting water straight up at my unit. Thick black smoke was billowing out of my home.

The kitchen window was gone, the wall scorched black, shattered glass and debris scattered everywhere. My legs instantly gave way. My mind went blank. "Move! Move!

That's my home!!" I shoved through the crowd like a madwoman, stumbling forward. A firefighter with soot on his face grabbed me and held me back. "Family?

You can't go in there right now! The scene isn't safe yet. There's a risk of a gas leak!" "What about the person inside?

My motherinlaw's in there!!" Just then, a paramedic ran over and spoke urgently with the firefighter. "Found one! Severe burns… vitals are weak.

We need to transport now!" They rushed out carrying a stretcher. On the white stretcher lay a charred body.

Only a few scraps of clothing hadn't burned away, and I could still tell they were from the jacket my motherinlaw had worn today.

An older neighbor lady standing nearby had gone pale. She pointed at the stretcher and murmured, "Oh, Lord, how awful! They're saying it was a gas leak explosion.

Just one old lady in there, burned so bad you can hardly recognize her…" My stomach churned.

My vision went dark, and only the firefighter holding me up kept me from collapsing to the ground. "The patient's condition is critical! Burns over more than 90 percent of the body!

Inhalation injury too! Where's the family? Ride with us to the hospital, now!" I stumbled into the ambulance and rode with it to the hospital.

The whole way, my hands shook so hard I couldn't even hold my phone steady. I looked at the charred body on the stretcher, and the enormous fear and guilt nearly swallowed me whole.

When I finally got through to my husband, I told him incoherently, "There was an explosion at home. Mom—Mom was inside.

The hospital…" His voice on the other end cracked instantly too. "What? What happened to Mom?!" Outside the ER, I paced back and forth. Every second was agony.

Soon my husband came running too, drenched in sweat, his face ashen. "What happened?" Just then, the doctor came out of the trauma bay, gravefaced. "Are you the family?

The patient has burns over more than ninety percent of her body and a severe inhalation injury.

Even with prolonged burnICU care, her chance of survival is extremely low, and the cost could eventually exceed five hundred thousand dollars.

We need to discuss whether her legal surrogate wants every aggressive measure continued or comfortfocused care." "Five—five hundred thousand?" Brady went white.

I leaned against the cold wall, chilled all over. My husband dropped into a crouch. After who knows how long, he suddenly stood up. "The kid's still little.

We're going to need money for so many things down the road." "This will drag our whole family under!

It'll ruin us for the rest of our lives!" I looked at him, and a terrible feeling suddenly rose inside me.

He took a deep breath, as if it took every ounce of his strength, and forced the words out through his teeth. "Let's stop treatment." My head snapped up.

I could hardly believe my ears. "Brady! What the hell are you saying? That's your mom! She ended up like this because she was making pierogi for you!

How can you say something like that?! Are you even human?!" The fight drew stares from people far down the hall. My shouting made Brady flinch.

Then a look of extreme impatience crossed his face, like I was the one being unreasonable.

Chapter 4 He flung out his hand, cutting me off, almost shouting. "What am I supposed to do?! This is fate! This is just your mom's fate!" I froze.

All the anger, the arguing, the disbelief suddenly found its answer in that moment. A bonechilling answer. So that was it.

He thought the one inside fighting for her life was my mom, Jean Arnett. That was why he could be so calm, so rational in making the optimal choice. Stop treatment. Save the money.

Even though I didn't like my motherinlaw, I couldn't just stand there and watch her die. I had to tell him the truth! Now! Right now!

I looked at his twisted face, my voice dry. "Honey, no! Listen to me. The one in there is actually your mom.

She…" Brady, all impatience, turned and walked off to one side, not willing to hear a word I said