Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
DANI
Today had already been unbearable, but everything imploded when I came home from work to find my mom face-down on her bedroom carpet.
We've just moved in, and some things are still in boxes, awaiting their final resting spot. I’d placed this task on my list for today.
But this…This isn’t something I thought I’d be doing today.
For a moment, I forgot how to breathe. I didn’t know how long she had been lying there alone.
My hand shook as I rolled her over, bracing myself for the worst, but then relief flooded me when her body still felt warm, her eyelids fluttering open.
“Dani?” Her thin, broken voice cuts straight through me, splintering my heart, hearing her say my name, like a plea on her lips sounding just oh-so-fucking sad. I drop my head in defeat, placing it closer to hers.
“Mom, are you okay?” I ask hesitantly, not really wanting to know anything else that could devastate me so cruelly.
Cradling her in my arms, she manages the slightest nod, almost too weak to answer.
“What happened?” I whisper. Her tongue swipes over her dry lips, ready to answer, but I place my hand gently against her arm, causing her to pause.
“Don’t. Not yet.” I pull her up as she stands weakly against me. Her frail body is weightless in my arms as I steady her before guiding her to the recliner. Once she’s settled, I rush to the nightstand, refill her water glass, and place it in her shaking hands. Only then do I let myself breathe.
Every morning before work, I make sure she has everything she needs.
After I leave, the visiting nurse comes to watch over her and stays until just before I get home.
Which means she couldn’t have been lying on that carpet for long.
I know this, yet the thought still destroys me.
Her helplessness, the fear she must have felt with no one there to answer her call, singes my soul, branding me with a shame I’m sure the world can see—the mark of what a terrible daughter I am.
I guide her delicate, paper-thin fingers around the sippy cup, steadying the straw at her lips. She tries to lift it, but even that small act proves to be too much. With my hand over hers, I coax it to her lips for her to sip.
“That’s it, Mom,” I say encouragingly. Her chest rises with a slow, steady breath, the effort draining what little reserve she had.
Her hand slips away, almost too heavy to hold, so I keep the cup steady for her, pressing the straw to her mouth so she doesn’t have to lift it again.
She drinks slowly, in small sips, pausing in between, as I continue to hold the cup up to her lips.
She’s too weak, and the sight of it breaks me.
“Now,” I whisper, my throat constricting with emotion, “tell me what happened, Mom?”
She looks at me sadly. “I just wanted to pick up my Chapstick.” Her gaze flicks to the floor, where the little black tube lies abandoned. I set the water aside and cross the room, placing it gently in her hand, which rests limp upon her lap.
“It fell,” she continues, her voice cracking at the last word.
A sharp breath escapes, laced with anger, as her feeble finger tips attempt to flex around the offending chapstick as though she might strangle it.
“I leaned over just a little to grab it…” She trails off as silence fills the void.
She swallows. “But I guess I am too weak to hold myself up. I lost my balance. My arms couldn’t catch me. And I fell.”
She turns away, ashamed, and I can’t bear the sight of it.
I twist the cap from the tube and lift it, applying the balm against her dry, cracked lips.
A single, traitorous tear escapes down her cheek, and I know in that moment, this hurts her more than the fall.
The humiliation of needing me for something so small hurts her more than broken bones could.
“I’m sorry, “ she whispers. The words knock me over as I look at her, stunned.
“Whatever for, Mom?” I ask, shaking my head.
“For being a burden on you.” Her voice cracks, and tears form in her eyes.
Her words hang between us, threatening to suffocate me as I try to take a breath in and fail.
My chest caves in protest as I force the air in as my vision begins to blur from the tears rising in my eyes.
I reach for her hand, gripping it as gently as I possibly can, anchoring her to me if I could to this life and the next.
“You could never be that,” I tell her, even though my throat threatens to tighten around the words.
I hold her gaze, imploring her to see what I see.
A strong warrior. A fighter. Unbroken, still now, despite the fragility of her body left ravaged by this terminal illness.
She isn’t a burden. She couldn’t be. How could love be a burden?
And I love her fiercely, through the good, the bad, and the ugly.
Every day I have left with her is a gift.
I clutch tightly because she has already exceeded the initial time frame the doctors gave us, measured out by cold facts and clinical statistics.
They warned us that every case is different, not to get our hopes up, but to make the most of the time left.
Yet they still provide us with numbers, ranges, and expectations, but she defied them all.
“All those times you took care of me when I was little,” I murmur, “you left a loveless marriage and started over, building us a new life.” I swallow hard, watching the tears stream down her hollowed cheeks.
“You are the strongest person I know. And if I can be half the person, be half the mother you are to me…” I struggle to get the final words out.
“I’d have done something right.” I wrap my arms around her, holding her the way she once cuddled me as a child.
For a moment, I wonder what a person could have done in their life to deserve so much suffering.
The thought strikes right through me, but it also sparks something inside.
It sparks a fight. A fight to advocate for people like my mom.
To ease their pain. To end their suffering.
After tucking Mom into bed, I wander aimlessly through our small apartment, picking up what I can.
I wash the few dishes in our sink, robotically fold the towels, and lose myself in thought.
I sink into the worn chair at the kitchenette, the tiny space doubling as the living and dining area.
I pull out my schoolbooks, trying to focus, but my mind drifts back to her and the events of the day.
And then it drifts to him, the man I should’ve confided in, and the weight of the secret presses heavier with every passing second I sit there.
I step away from the cluttered table full of books and almost-dreams to enter my bedroom and reach for the box tucked into the far corner of the closet.
Cradling it carefully to my chest, I carry what could have been my future, placing it onto the dining table.
I gently set it down, clearing the books I most definitely won’t be touching tonight to make some room.
My hands linger on the box, wondering if I am ready to do this.
I breathe deeply before ripping off the top, unleashing the memories I’ve kept contained and tucked in so neatly since he left.
I sit there for hours, sifting through every memory and every photo. I hadn’t wanted to do this because the memories are too painful. I miss Vic so much. The ache in my chest burns, and the silence of his absence torments me. What could have made him give up on us? Did he find someone new?
That thought alone makes me spring upward and grab my phone.
I bite my lip, imagining him with someone else.
No one could ever share a love like ours.
The very thought churns my stomach violently.
And the idea of him fucking someone else—it forces me to remember him, the way we were together, and how good it was.
The darkness he carried wasn't a result of sadness or anger.
It was a pulse of primal desire. The way he gripped me, wrapping his fingers around my throat as we collided, bending me over, thrusting into me with an unrelenting pace, leaves me sinking to the floor, clutching the picture of us that we took after his father died.
That was the moment he fully embraced his darkness, and I joined him.
He was uncontrollable in bed, and I was insatiable for his violent nature.
I craved him as fiercely as he craved me.
But even in our most dangerous throws of passion, there was a pull to each other we couldn’t resist. It made every look he gave me and every touch he offered feel like molten fire on my skin.
We were a collision of need and pain, morphing into the rawest form of love.
His inner turmoil spilled over, dragging me down with him.
It was suffocating, dangerous, and thrilling all at once. And I’d never felt more alive.
I was addicted to him as much as he was addicted to me.
Our shared madness teetered on obsession because loving him meant embracing our darkest parts, and that’s what scarred me the most. Acknowledging that I had them, too, was the most brutal truth to accept.
I imagined living with him, and sometimes I pretended that our shared memories, even the blood and the pain, were what made our home.
It could never be tainted because our love was the road that led us there, not a physical place.
But that dream was fleeting. After graduation, we spent that last summer together, desperately clinging to everything except the reality of the time we had left.
It’s with that thought that I do what I know I shouldn’t, but rational thought is long gone.
So I grab my phone and dial his number. It rings and rings, and with each chime, it chisels into my chest just a little bit more.
Just when I think it will go to voicemail, someone answers.
At first, there's only silence. I pull the phone back, wondering if the call ended. When I see it hasn’t, I call out, “Vic?”
But then I hear it. A small, feminine voice answers, “Hello.”
I blink, disbelieving, until I ask, “Who’s this?”
Her voice grows louder and a little bolder. I hear a huff. “Who’s this?” she counters.
My stomach drops. I collapse to the floor, clutching my chest. I hear a toilet flush, and then a door open.
“Baby, are you okay?” Her muffled voice asks who I can only assume is Vic.
“Chloe, do you have my phone?” he asks, confirming my worst fear.
Then the line goes dead. And so does my heart. The road I thought would always lead to Vic is gone, and I’m left standing alone.