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I wish I had a comeback, but I just stare at her, having trouble breathing.
She’s thin, too thin.
Her head is covered by a scarf, and her skin is grayish, almost brittle. I don’t want to say it out loud, but I know what’s wrong.
Cancer.
I’ve seen it before, lived it.
And now…
No. No. No.
Not her, the only person I have left. My legs tremble and it takes me a few seconds to remind myself that she needs me.
So many questions pop inside my head. When were you diagnosed? How advanced is it? Let’s find a different doctor. I have money this time, we can… but instead of sounding like a CIA agent in the middle of an interrogation, I can only whisper, “You should’ve called me before.”
She gives me a sad smile. “I was—”
“Trying to do it on your own,” I finish the sentence before I hug her tightly, wanting to take whatever is happening to her away.
I fight the tears. She doesn’t need me to crumble. She needs me to lift her up. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll get through this.”
“Please don’t be like them.”
I release her and study her before asking, “Them?”
“The doctors and nurses who keep giving me hope and claiming I’ll be fine.”
Oh those. They lie at the beginning, giving you false hope, and then slay you with the words,she only has a few months left.Those are just lies.
But maybe this time we’re catching it in time,I want to say.
There’s no way we’re giving up hope.
I look around, hoping to see her daughter running around or… “Where’s Rumi?”
“Already in bed.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Thankfully, she’s too little to know what’s happening.” And isn’t that the truth.
No one wants to go through the pain of seeing your mother sick and not being able to help her. It’s jarring and soul breaking.
“But why don’t you come inside? We’ll find you something less formal to wear.” She breaks the silence, almost smirking at her sarcasm. “Then, we’ll make some tea, and we can catch up with what’s happening with your life, and maybe you can tell me why it seems like you’re… I can’t even describe it. I mean if you were wearing at least some flat shoes, but four-inch stilettos seem…”
“Too Daisy Duke?” I laugh because she’s not wrong. Although, I’d love to sit and talk about my pathetic weekend—and the past three years of my life—I choose to change the subject. “Where’s your husband? I haven’t heard from him in a while. How’s he handling it?”
“We—” She closes her mouth, pressing her lips into a thin line. After a long silence, she simply answers, “It’s a long story.”
“He left you?” I screech. “Please tell me he didn’t walk out on you.”
She gives me an almost apologetic shrug.
I could’ve expected that from many people, but never from Mitchell. He adored Anya, didn’t he?
And this isn’t how we dreamed our future to be. We both wanted to have it all, the career, the loving husband, and the children.
