Chapter 22 - Isabella #3
"No," I say. "I wouldn't."
"I know." My mother's voice breaks. "That's how I know you're better than me. Stronger. You became something I never... I never could be."
"Mom—"
"I watched you." She's crying. "All those years. Watched you dance. Watched you fight that cancer. Watched you survive things that would have broken me." Her hand trembles in mine. "And I kept thinking... that's not from me. I didn't teach her that. She taught herself."
"You taught me to dance."
"I taught you the steps." A ghost of a smile. "You taught yourself everything else. The courage. The grace. The way you love people even when it hurts."
Her breathing is changing. Longer pauses. Shallower. I've sat beside enough hospital beds to know.
"I wanted more time," she whispers. "I wanted to show you I could be better. That I could be the mother you deserved."
"The key," I say. "The warnings about Stefanos. Coming to the hospital during chemo. You tried, Mom. At the end, you tried."
"Too late."
"Maybe." I squeeze her hand. "But you still did it."
She's quiet for a moment. Her eyes drift to something I can't see.
"I was so scared of dying," she says finally. "My whole life. Everything I did—leaving, lying, the deals I made—I was just trying to stay alive. And now..." A broken laugh. "Now I'm dying anyway. And all I can think is... I wasted so much time being afraid."
"You're not afraid now?"
"No." Her eyes find mine. Clear. Peaceful in a way I've never seen. "I got to see you again. I got to see who you became." Her voice drops. "I got to see that you're going to be okay. That you have people who love you. That little girl who needs you. Will you tell her about me?."
"I’ll tell her that you taught me to dance. That you loved flowers. That you were..." I hesitate. "That you were complicated. But that you loved me."
"That's true." Her hand tightens on mine, a last surge of strength. "That's all true. I loved you, Bella. From the moment you were born. I just..." Her voice fails. "I just loved myself more. When it mattered. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I wasn't stronger."
I look at this woman—my mother, the ghost, the stranger, the person who helped me escape and also put me in danger in the first place.
I don't understand her. I don't think I ever will.
The choice she made—leaving, staying dead, letting me grieve—I could never make that choice. I would never leave Elena.
But she's still my mother. She's still dying. And she's still looking at me like I'm the only good thing she ever did.
"I know you loved me," I say. "I always knew. Even when I was angry. Even when I hated what you did."
"But you can't understand why I left."
"No." I'm crying now too. "I can't. I would never... I could never leave Elena. I don't know how to understand choosing yourself over your child."
"I know." No defense. No excuse. "That's because you're a better mother than I ever was. And you haven't even started yet."
"Mom—"
"It's okay, Bella." She's fading now, her voice thinning. "I don't need you to understand. I just need you to know... I'm proud of you. So proud. You became everything I was too afraid to be."
Her eyes are drifting closed. Her breathing slowing.
"I love you," I tell her, because I can't let her go without saying it. Because it's true even when I don't understand. Because that's what love is—choosing someone even when they've hurt you. Even when you can't make sense of what they've done.
"I love you too." Her hand goes slack in mine. "I love you, kardia mou. My heart. My brave girl."
Her chest rises.
Falls.
Doesn't rise again.
The monitors flatline, but I barely hear them. I'm holding her hand—still warm, not yet cold—and I'm thinking about Elena. About how I would burn the world down before I'd let anyone hurt her. About how I would never, ever leave her.
My mother wasn't like me. She wasn't strong enough. She wasn't brave enough. She chose wrong, again and again, and I can't understand it.
But she was still my mother.
And I loved her anyway.
I press my forehead to our joined hands and let the tears come.
I don't know how long I kneel there. Long enough for the room to empty. Long enough for the candles to gutter out. Long enough for Antonio to cross the space and crouch beside me, his hand warm on my back, saying nothing because there's nothing to say.
"She's gone," I tell him, and my voice sounds like someone else's.
"I know."
"She asked me to dance for her. And I…. don’t know if I want to. But I think I do. Dance for her."
"Then you will."
He doesn't try to pull me away. Doesn't tell me we have to go, that it's not safe, that there are things to handle. He just stays with me, his presence solid and warm, while I hold my mother's hand and learn what it means to grieve someone you never got the chance to fully know.
"Take me home." I turn in his arms, bury my face against his chest. He smells like salt and blood and gunpowder, but underneath it, he smells like safety. Like the fortress. Like the life we've built together.
"Please," I whisper. "Take me home to Elena."
Antonio’s arms tighten around me, but I’m not finished.
“She died thinking she’d failed,” I whisper. “Her whole life—running, scheming, making deals with monsters—and in the end, she died believing none of it mattered.”
“Did it matter?”
“I don’t know.” I think about the key in my pocket. The escape route she gave me. The way she told me to run and not look back. “She helped me at the end. When it counted. But does one right choice balance out thirteen years of wrong ones?”
“I’m not the person to ask about that.” His voice is rough. “I spent three months making wrong choices about you. You forgave me anyway.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
I don’t have an answer. Maybe that’s the point—that grief doesn’t come with answers, only questions you’ll spend the rest of your life asking.
“She said she loved me,” I tell him. “At the end. Wrong and badly, but she loved me.”
“Do you believe her?”
I think about the macaroni necklace she kept for twenty years. The lullabies she sang when I was too drugged to know what was real. The fierce way she gripped my hand when she told me to run.
“Yes,” I say. “I think I do.”
It doesn’t fix anything. Doesn’t erase the lies, the abandonment, the years of talking to an empty grave. But it’s something. A truth I can carry alongside the grief.
She loved me. Wrongly. Badly.
But she loved me.