Chapter 8 - Luca Had Been Caring for Her Too
The first thing that complicated my anger was the fall log.
Mom had fallen seven times in eighteen months.
Luca documented each one.
Dates.
Times.
Whether she hit her head.
Blood pressure.
Phone calls to doctors.
He had installed grab bars.
Moved her bedroom downstairs.
Added motion lights.
Replaced rugs.
I had paid for most of it.
But he had done it.
Then there were hospital records.
Luca sat with her through a ten-hour emergency-room visit.
Wendy stayed overnight after cataract surgery.
Luca argued with insurance over denied occupational therapy.
Wendy bathed Mom after a stomach virus because Mom refused a professional aide.
Real care.
Not invented.
I hated that.
A clean villain would have been easier.
Then Rachel said:
“Exploitation and caregiving can coexist.”
I knew.
Still difficult.
Luca had given Mom things I had not.
Time.
Physical presence.
Familiarity.
Then turned those things into entitlement.
That distinction became crucial.
I interviewed three former home health aides.
Why former?
They had all quit.
One said Luca hovered constantly.
Another said Wendy criticized Mom for accidents.
The third, Tasha Greene, stayed nearly nine months.
“She wasn't treated like a maid when I started.”
“When did that happen?”
Tasha frowned.
“Gradually.”
Mom insisted on folding towels.
Then washing dishes.
Then sweeping.
Luca praised her for “staying useful.”
When memory worsened, Mom repeated tasks.
Cleaned the same counter five times.
Luca began using chores to redirect her agitation.
“Is that bad?”
Tasha considered.
“Occupational routines can help.”
“Then?”
“He started expecting it.”
“What do you mean?”
“If she sat down, he'd say, ‘Mom, don't get lazy.’”
That sounded like Luca.
Then Wendy bought the housekeeping uniforms.
“Why?”
“She said Mom kept ruining normal clothes with bleach.”
Reasonable.
Also degrading.
Both could be true.
“Did Luca hit her?”
“I never saw it.”
“Grab her?”
“Once.”
“How?”
“She tried leaving at night. He held her wrists because she was fighting.”
Bruises.
Maybe.
Again:
Not clean.
Then Tasha told me something unexpected.
“Your mother used to defend him constantly.”
“I know.”
“No. I mean about the money.”
My pulse changed.
“What money?”
“She said Luca deserved to be paid.”
“For caregiving?”
“Yes.”
“She knew?”
“At least sometimes.”
That challenged my assumption that every WLC payment was secret.
Tasha continued:
“She said you were successful because somebody else had always stayed home.”
I stared.
“Did she mean Luca?”
“I think she meant herself.”
That sentence stayed with me.
Mom had spent decades caregiving.
For Dad.
For us.
For her own mother.
Nobody invoiced her labor.
Now, in cognitive decline, perhaps she believed Luca and Wendy deserved compensation for doing what family had always expected women to do for free.
That did not justify a Lexus.
But it introduced a question I had avoided:
How much was fair?
Not legally.
Morally.
If Luca had sacrificed work to care for Mom, was zero compensation fair simply because I owned the house and funded the account?
No.
If he used her impairment to enrich himself, was four thousand plus luxuries fair?
Also no.
The truth would live somewhere uncomfortable between those answers.
Then Tasha gave me one final detail.
“Your mom used to ask for you every afternoon.”
“When?”
“Before Luca fired me.”
“Why were you fired?”
Tasha looked at me.
May you like
“Because I offered to help her call you.”
That part was not complicated at all.
