My mother was sitting alone on that kitchen floor, breathing in short, ragged pulls. One hand pressed against her stomach, she whispered to herself, to no one:
“Just a little longer, Elena. Just until Claire finishes her launch. Don’t cause her any trouble right now.”
My legs stopped working. I slid off the couch onto the floor, unable to catch my breath.
I had accused my mother of hiding a lover. The truth was, she was quietly dying inside my own house, and her biggest fear was inconveniencing my schedule.
And I had no idea the worst of it was still ahead of me.
For illustrative purposes only
PART 3
I scrambled up and ran to Mom’s door, pounding on it.
“Mom! Please open the door!”
Nothing.
“Mom, please,” I sobbed.
I turned and saw Marcus at the end of the hall, holding a sleeping Sophie, guilt written all over his face.
Something clicked. “You knew.”
He couldn’t meet my eyes. “Not everything, Claire.”
A wave of betrayal hit me. “What did you know?”
“A few weeks ago I found blood on some towels in the laundry,” he admitted. “Your mom caught me holding them. She begged me not to tell you.”
“And you just — went along with it?”
“She said she was already seeing an oncologist. She said your launch was happening, that if you found out you’d drop everything and blame yourself. She swore it was under control.”
My eyes burned. “Did you see her in pain before tonight?”
He went quiet.
“How many times, Marcus?”
“…Several,” he said, barely audible.
I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to make this entirely his fault.
But then I thought about every wince I’d caught over the last six months when she reached for a dish. Every time she claimed she’d already eaten before we got home. Every evening I’d walked in the door and asked her:
“Did Sophie finish her bottle?”
“Did you wash the crib sheets?”
“Can you stay up a little later tomorrow so I can finish this deck?”
Not once had I looked her in the eye and asked, Mom, are you okay?
I tried the door handle. Unlocked.
Mom sat on the edge of the bed, looking impossibly small in the dim light. I dropped to my knees in front of her and took her cold hands in mine.
“I saw the camera, Mom,” I said, crying.
She turned her face away.
“Mom — please look at me. What’s happening to you?”
“It’s nothing I can’t manage, Claire,” she said softly.
“Don’t you dare say that to me again.” I pressed my forehead against her knees. “Please. Tell me.”
She let out a long breath.
“Cancer,” she said.
One word, and my job, my promotion, my accusations — all of it went silent.
“Where?” I managed.
“Stage four. Colon.”
“Since when?”
She hesitated. “It was diagnosed almost a year ago.”
I went cold. A year ago.
“But — you moved in with us six months ago.”
She gave me a small, tender smile. “That’s exactly why I came, Claire.”
“What do you mean?”
She looked over at the portable crib in the corner. “When you called me crying, saying you couldn’t find childcare, that your career was falling apart — I’d already had my first surgery. I already had the colostomy. The doctors back home wanted me to start aggressive chemo right away.”
My breath caught. “You put off treatment to raise my baby?”
“No, sweetie. I found out I could get treatment here in Phoenix while staying with you. But then I saw how stressed you were, how hard Marcus was working, how small Sophie was…”
“Mom!”
“I just wanted to watch her grow, even a little,” she whispered, tears finally spilling. “I wanted to be here for you.”
That was when I understood something worse than any diagnosis. My mother knew her time was limited, and she’d spent what she had left shielding me from the world.
“We’re going to the hospital right now,” I said, standing.
