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Her arms go around me as she continues to cry. Having no idea what to say, I just hug her back.
The mood has shifted in my parents, and I’m just as confused now as I was last night when I was talking to my dad on the porch.
Before the benefit, they were so hopeful.
But now it’s like they see the ugly truth.
I guess that’s what parents do for their children—put on a brave face, even when they’re terrified inside. However, at some point, they break just like anyone would. Moms and dads might act like superheroes, but when it comes down to it, they’re just people who hold too much love in their hearts.
“You don’t have to keep pretending for me, okay?” I say, some of her flyaway hairs tickling my nose. “The fundraiser was probably a pretty big reality check for you guys. I understand that. Did we at least get a decent amount of money?”
“We actually haven’t counted it yet. Your dad and I were up talking for most of the night. And then I spent some time Googling…”
“That’s always a bad idea,” I say wryly.
Squeezing me tighter, she makes a desperate noise. “I just wish I could take you and run far away. Just run away from all of this.”
The doorbell rings, interrupting our moment, and Mom pulls back. Wiping the tears from her cheeks, there’s contempt in her voice when she mutters, “That must behim.”
Him. She still won’t say his name, and I’m enjoying her small form of protest.
“After I’m done showinghimaround, can I make him clean out the horse stalls again?” A mischievous smile curls up on my lips.
The grin my mom sends me is real as she stands. “Absolutely. In fact, I insist on it.” She looks at my barely eaten breakfast. “You’ll eat first.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you need help getting dressed?”
“No.” I wave her off. “You should be in the store by now.”
My mom has been the manager of the gift shop-slash-bakery for as long as I can remember. She’s there every Saturday to bake up a storm, and everyone wants to say hello or chat with her. She’s the familiar face everyone loves.
I wonder how things will change once we sell. I wonder if our customers will stop coming when a new owner takes over.
I sincerely hope not. When I think about what the world will be like after I’m gone, I like to picture this place thriving.
My mom leaves my room to answer the door and get going on her way.
And because I’m feeling just as salty as last night, I take my time with my toast and eggs with small bites.
Ellister can wait.
Slowly, I nibble and pick at the food, moving things around with my fork while taking intermediate sips of my water. After over half the plate is cleared and my stomach fights back with a cramp, I know I can’t stall any longer.
Using my lingering anger at Ellister to help boost my energy, I shed my PJs, and slip a bralette over my head. My shirt is next, then I wiggle into my jeans, all while still sitting on the bed. The softest boots I own are on the floor—no lacing required—and I shove my feet into them before I grab my cane and get to my feet.
Next, I button my pants. Well, I try.
It’s not working.
I’m able to get the zipper up, but the motor function in my left hand is noticeably worse today.
A new symptom.
“Oh, no,” I whisper as the pins and needles take up residence in my fingers.
No matter how hard I concentrate, I can’t get them to work together to get the button through the damn hole.
