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“Sort of.”
She furrowed her brow. “What does that mean?”
I lifted a shoulder. “It’s not a translator position.”
“Is it local?”
I bit my lip, fighting the buzz of excitement. “Yes, but—”
“Kendall, take it!” She was enthusiastic. Well, as enthusiastic as she could be when her body was in this state. And that made my heart lift.
“You haven’t even heard what it is,” I said.
“I don’t need to. It’s a job, and you were smiling when you walked back in.”
I frowned. “How did you know that? Your eyes were closed.”
“I’m your mother. I sensed it.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re so full of it.”
“Tell me more about this position.”
My phone vibrated, an alert for a new email appearing on the screen. I opened my inbox and read the message from Staci. “Here.” I handed the phone to my mom.
“Holy—” She shook her head, her attention focused on the screen. “You’d get paid that much to live in some celeb’s mansion for a few months?”
I nodded. “I know.”
It might be a few months. It could be even longer, depending on how long the renovations took.
“What are you waiting for?” she asked, and the machine that dispersed her medicine beeped. “Tell her yes.”
“I can’t.” I slouched in the chair, all thoughts of sleeping in luxury and lounging by the pool vanishing in an instant.
“Why not?” She skimmed the email again before handing back my phone. “It’s flexible. You could still do your online tutoring. And you’d have a real bed. In a real room.”
“Yeah, but…”
She frowned, placing her hand over mine. “Kendall, sweetheart, we’ve talked about this.”
I glared at her. “Mom.”
“What?” She lifted her hand, the one with the IV attached. “You heard Dr. Johansen. I’m showing progress.”
And for that, I was incredibly grateful. It had been a long six months, filled with constant concern for my mom. Diagnosis. Surgeries. Treatments. Watching her lose her hair. Seeing her health fade.
“Yes, but you never know how the treatment will affect you. What if you need help?” I asked, thinking of how unpredictable the side effects could be.
Sometimes, she’d start off fine. But then a few days after treatment, the nausea and exhaustion would set in. There had been times when she could barely move, let alone function without substantial help. And while she was getting stronger, her health was still fragile.
And then there was the money…
She raised a brow. “You’re not the only person who can help me.”
“Hey!” I chided.
“I appreciate you and everything you do. You know that. But it doesn’t all have to fall on your shoulders. I’m not your responsibility.”
