Member-only story
Because You’re A Writer
Three weeks back, I stayed overnight in the hospital room, where my mother-in-law lay semi-comatose and delirious.
“The letter has to go out,” m-i-l said, addressing someone who appeared to be standing at the foot of her bed.
Her speech was slurred.
I walked over to her bedside. “What letter?”
“Send it by SpeedPost,” she said, looking straight ahead. “Otherwise, it’ll get there after the wedding.”
I touched her arm. “Don’t worry, I’ll mail it.”
Suddenly, she turned her head and looked at me. “You should write the letter.”
I blinked, startled by the directness of her gaze. “Why me?”
“Because you’re a writer.”
I was speechless.
My mother-in-law was caring but rarely expressive. That night, she couldn’t remember my name but she remembered what is quintessentially me.
I make no claims to brilliance. But her words banished all misgivings about calling myself a writer.
