I just want some soup that’s been made with clean hands. Moments after the text comes in, there is a pot on my stove with a whole chicken cuddled next to carrots and celery. Our mother taught us to always, always keep a chicken in the freezer. I’ve lost track of the qualities are because of my mother and which ones are despite her. Either way, I know I learned this from her. I know my sister could have texted her. It was the clean hands that got me. Neither of us has eaten anything made in my mother’s kitchen in years. Not since she got really sick. Not since she stopped leaving the house and got the fourth cat. It’s a big deal for my sister to ask for help. She knows I live just minutes away and she knows I would do anything for her. She knows too, that had she asked my mother, she would have sent groceries over or ordered soup from the deli. But my sister wanted something made from clean hands. From our hands. She knows my hands are clean. She knows I bleach them several times a day. She knows the lengths I go through to make sure there is more of me despite my mother than because of her. She does the same when she asks me for help. Two hours later, I deliver a mason jar full of soup at her door. I wait for her to wave through the window. Maybe, she wishes I was her mother. Maybe, I wish I had a daughter. Maybe a mother’s hands are never clean.