Scott slowly approached the visitor’s lounge. He saw her frail form, which had been ravaged by old age, sitting in a wheelchair.
He reached for one of her pale, cold hands. She cowered, appeared afraid, and immediately folded her arms across her chest. A look of surprise and puzzlement crossed her delicate features as she tilted her head from side to side.
Tired eyes that were partially blinded by cataracts searched his face for some sign of recognition.
“Who are you?” she whispered, her anguish palpable.
“It is not important, Mother,” he said softly as he frowned, turned, and walked away.