One. The orphanage was falling down around us.
Two. We had no money for medicine.
Three. I was failing everyone who counted on me.
Then I opened my eyes, straightened my shoulders, and walked toward my mom's room.
As I entered, the smell hit me as soon as I cracked open the door. Lavender sachets were doing their best to mask the sour tang of sickness, like perfume sprayed over rotting fruit. The sachets hung from the bedposts, little purple bundles that Susie had sewn from scraps of fabric, but they couldn't hide the truth that lived in the air itself.
Weak sunlight filtered through the thin curtains, casting everything in a pale, underwater glow. The room felt smaller each time I entered, as if the walls were slowly closing in, or maybe it was just that my mom seemed to shrink a little more each day, dwarfed by bedding that had once fit her properly.
She'd been formidable once... tall and straight-backed, with hands that could calm a crying baby or fix a broken toy with equal skill. The woman who'd taken in every lost child who found their way to our door. Who'd built this place into something that felt like home instead of just another institution. Now she looked like a bird with broken wings, her hair limp andcolorless against the pillow, each breath shallow and careful, as if breathing itself had become work.
"Mom?" I whispered, settling onto the edge of the mattress. The springs creaked under me, a sound that seemed too loud in the hushed room.
Her eyes fluttered open. They were still sharp, still the same warm brown that had comforted me through nightmares and scraped knees and the terrible day when I'd realized that most of the world saw me as nothing more than a womb with legs. It was part of the joys of being an Omega, being seen only as a slave to men’s whims.
"Heather." Her voice was paper-thin but still held traces of the strength I remembered. "How are the children?"
"They're fine," I said, reaching for the water glass on her nightstand. "I'll make you some tea in a minute. The breakfast went well, everyone ate, and Bobby brought milk yesterday."
She smiled, and for a moment I could see the woman she used to be. "That Bobby. Never says much, but he has a good heart."
I nodded, adjusting her pillows even though they didn't need adjusting. Anything to keep my hands busy, to keep from looking too directly at how fragile she'd become. "The doctor said those injections he prescribed would help with the pain. Maybe we should—"
"No." The word came out sharp enough to cut. "Absolutely not."
"But Mom, if they could help you feel better—"
"Heather, look at me." She struggled to sit up straighter, and I had to resist the urge to help her. She'd always been too proud for her own good. "How much do those injections cost?"
I stared down at my hands, shame burning in my chest like acid. "It doesn't matter—"
"How much?"
"Fifty dollars each," I whispered.
"Fifty dollars." She let out a bitter laugh that turned into a cough. "Do you know what fifty dollars could buy for the children? New shoes for Denson. His toes are coming through the ends of his sneakers. A proper winter coat for Macey. Books that aren't falling apart at the seams."
She was right, of course. She was always right about these things. But that didn't make it easier to swallow. "I just want to help you feel better."
"You want to know what would make me feel better?" Her hand found mine, fingers trembling but grip surprisingly strong. "Knowing that when I'm no longer able to open my eyes, you won't waste money trying to keep a dying woman comfortable while children go without what they need."
The words hit me like a slap. "Don't talk like that."
"Promise me, Heather." Her eyes locked onto mine, and I saw the steel that had kept this place running for twenty years. "Promise me you won't throw money away on me when they need it more."
I wanted to argue, to fight, to scream that she was worth every penny we had and more. But the children's faces floated through my mind... Loubie Lou with her whole life ahead of her, Manny with his broken toy and mute past, all of them counting on me to make the right choices.
"I promise I will try," I whispered, the words tasting like ashes.
She squeezed my hand once, then let go. I leaned down to kiss her forehead, her skin papery and cool under my lips, and tried to memorize the moment. How many more times would I get to do this? How many more conversations, how many more shared glances were left before I lost her to this disease? I sighed, feigned a smile and watched her settle back into a dreamless sleep.
