Chapter 6
VALENTINA
When I was little, my mom used to sing to me.
Not with words. I never thought to ask why she never used any.
Maybe she didn’t know them, or maybe she just liked the sound of her own humming.
Either way, it always did the trick. I’d shut my eyes and listen until the world around me felt softer.
Moments like those made everything okay.
I hadn’t thought about those moments in a while, but now, standing alone in front of the elevator, the memory hit me like a bruise I didn’t know I had until someone pressed on it. And god, did they press hard.
I found it ironic, how she used to be the one who held me together, and now she was lying upstairs in a hospital bed and I couldn’t even bring myself to step inside her room.
I stared at the silver elevator doors, then the button next to them.
One press, and I’d be on my way to room 308.
One press, and I’d have to face her.
I’d have to see her after weeks of avoiding her. I’d finally have to face her frail hands, the IV taped to her wrist, the squint in her eyes that always felt like an accusation, even when it wasn’t.
I hated coming here. I hated how it made me feel. I avoided it. Of course I did. I couldn’t stop avoiding things—it was what I did best. I was supposed to be stronger than this. I was supposed to be the one humming for my mama.
Finally, I pulled in a breath and pressed the button for the third floor. The ride was slow. Painfully slow. It gave me too much time to think—about hightailing it out of there.
But before I could, the doors opened with a soft ding, and the hallway stretched out in front of me. Room 308 was just ahead. There was no avoiding it now. Not with everything she was going through, and definitely not with everything Max was holding over my head.
Once I was outside the door, I stood there with my hand resting on the frame. I could hear the faint hum of those scary-looking machines that were always attached to her. All I could think about was how their hums replaced her own.
When I turned the corner, I could see Mama sitting up in the bed with her hair pulled into a low bun, just like it always was. When she saw me, her eyes lit up almost immediately.
For a second—a small one—she looked like the mom I remembered.
“Valentina. You finally made it.”
“Hi, Mommy,” I whispered as I crossed the room, acting as if I hadn’t been here for two hours already, trying to gain the courage to come up here.
She patted the edge of the bed and made room for me. I sank into the chair instead. I didn’t trust myself to sit on the bed—not when she looked so breakable, as if one wrong move would shatter her entirely.
“Isabel told me you’d come yesterday,” she said in a tone only a mother could pull off. “But I knew you wouldn’t.”
I winced. “Sorry. I meant to. I just . . . Things got busy.”
Busy. The classic excuse. Busy with what, exactly?
She gave me a gentle look. “It’s okay, mija. You’re here now.”
I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe that me sitting here in this terrible plastic chair that smelled like disinfectant and despair was enough.
I knew it wasn’t.
She reached slowly toward the bedside table, fingers trembling slightly as they brushed the plastic cup of water.
I leaned forward and handed it to her without meeting her eye, because if I looked at her too long I’d see too much.
Like how fragile she was now; how each visit seemed to chip away a little more of the mom I remembered—the mom who could silence the loudest storm inside me with the softest of sounds.
She took a slow sip. “Thank you,” she whispered.
I nodded once, quickly, glancing down at my lap, picking at a loose thread on my coat.
“How are you feeling?” I asked, and it sounded hollow even to my own ears.
She set the cup down, watching me. “Oh, the nurses are sweet. They pretend not to be annoyed when I press the button too many times. Isabel visits every day.”
I shifted uncomfortably as she gave me one of those gentle smiles—the kind moms give their kids when they’ve tried really hard to draw a picture and it turns out looking like a blob. Like, “Nice try, but we both know you can do better.”
Of course Isabel visited every day. Of course she never missed anything. Perfect Isabel, the daughter who showed up, who didn’t turn into a scared little girl every time she was faced with something hard. Isabel knew how to hold hands and how to make Mama laugh, even when the news was bad.
Isabel was brave, and I was everything else.
Mama reached forward, settling her hand gently on mine. “You know, the nurses always gossip. The things I overhear in this place . . .”
I raised my eyebrows, letting a faint smile tug at my lips despite myself. “Anything good?”
Her eyes twinkled the way they used to when I was younger, back when she’d catch me sneaking home after curfew but pretend not to be mad. “Apparently, Nurse Claudia has a new boyfriend, but Nurse Teresa saw him first.”
I let out a soft laugh. “Drama.”
She squeezed my hand gently. “Reminds me of those novellas we used to watch. Remember? You and Isabel fighting over who got to sit closest, both of you yelling at the TV.”
My chest tightened. I did remember. Clearer than I wanted to. “Isabel always yelled louder,” I murmured. “She got really invested in those stories.”
Mama smiled. “And you pretended you weren’t invested at all. But I saw you, Vale. You cried every time.”
I rolled my eyes, but the ache in my chest eased a little. “I was ten, Mama. Give me a break.”
She hummed softly, and my breath caught. It was just like before. For a moment, everything felt softer. Safer.
“You were always so stubborn,” she continued gently. “Pretending you didn’t care about things. Like that puppy your Tío brought over one Christmas—remember him?”
I did. Small, fluffy, with brown eyes that looked too big for his tiny face. I’d loved him instantly but hid in my room when they took him away. Cried for days. Lied and said I didn’t care, even though I couldn’t stop caring.
“I guess I didn’t like getting attached.”
“You never did,” Mama said gently.
I pulled my hand slowly from hers.
“Have you done anything lately?” she wondered. “For yourself, I mean.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came out. For some reason, I couldn’t think of anything. Well, I could think of one thing—a nice bottle of wine—but I wasn’t going to say that.
“Uh, I don’t know,” I finally admitted, shrugging.
Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “You should. You need to.”
I nodded, but my mind was elsewhere, drifting back to a time when I didn’t have to think about questions like that. When life was easy in all the ways it wasn’t now.
When I was still with Cillian.
Our marriage had nothing to do with love, but it did provide stability, security, and distance from chaos.
Cillian had never demanded anything from me. He was hardly ever there anyway. The whole arrangement was purely for show, a partnership built on appearances and mutual indifference. He kept his affairs quiet, and I kept mine even quieter. It hadn’t been perfect, but it had worked.
I never overdid it. I never asked for more than I needed. That was what had made it easy, simple, but simplicity didn’t last.
I’d never told my mom about Cillian—about the roles I’d let myself slip into because they’d seemed like the best option at the time. I didn’t want her to know I’d taken that route. That I’d tied myself to the kind of people she’d always warned me about.
And yet Cillian wasn’t the worst of them. Sure, he may have been colder than most, but he was never cruel. Not to me anyway. He’d never asked me for more than I could give, and he’d always made sure I had what I needed.
In his own strange way, he’d taken care of me.
I shifted in the chair, the plastic arms digging into my sides. I could feel Mama watching me, waiting for me to say something.
What could I tell her? That I’d traded love for security? That I’d built a life that wasn’t really mine, and now I didn’t know how to get it back?
No.
I couldn’t do that.
Not to her. She had enough to worry about without adding my mistakes to the list.
“I can try,” I said.
She leaned back against her pillow, her eyes drifting slowly shut. For a moment I thought she’d fallen asleep.
My chest ached harder, because all I wanted was to lie down beside her and be that girl again—the one who cried at novellas, who wanted to keep the dog for herself, who felt things instead of running from them.
But I didn’t. I stayed another five minutes until she drifted off to sleep, and then I left like I always did.
I walked slowly toward the elevator, my footsteps echoing softly on the pale, shiny floor. My coat felt heavier now, like I’d stuffed it full of all the unsaid words I’d held back during those couple of minutes.
When the elevator doors opened, I stepped inside, leaning against the cold metal wall, grateful for its support. I was too tired, too drained, to pretend anymore—not that I’d ever been particularly good at it. But pretending was safer than being honest. It always had been.
I looked back once before stepping onto the street. My attention lingered on the bright lights coming from the third-floor windows above me. I wondered if Mama was still asleep or if she’d woken up to an empty chair beside her, wondering again why I couldn’t just stay.
Maybe next time I’d stay even longer. But the thing about “maybe” was that it wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t even close. It was just a word I whispered to myself over and over when the truth was too heavy to carry.
I pulled my coat tighter around myself and headed to the subway.