Roll back the Stone
*
Jesus, eggs, Easter bunnies, and ham.
“Stop fidgeting. I promise you can eat the giant peanut butter chocolate egg when we get home.”
I glanced at Robert and grinned. His clean-shaven face and freshly trimmed hair, short on the sides, made him look like a polished adult.
The rebellious edge that once defined him had softened into something refined.
A wave of nerves swept through me as I reached for his hand.
I was an adult, too. I could handle this.
We entered the chaos of my family’s home, the door opening to a cacophony of sounds. “Hey, family!” I called out, injecting as much cheer as I could muster.
Childish screams greeted me as my nieces and nephews thundered down the stairs.
A preschooler with wild, frizzy hair, hurled herself at me, laughing uncontrollably.
Her sticky hands clung to my neck, and her hair tickled my face.
The familiar mix of crayons and dirt surrounded her, as comforting as it was chaotic.
I nearly toppled over from the onslaught of hugs, but their pure joy made me laugh despite the nerves gnawing at my stomach.
This conversation was going to hurt like hell.
We moved to the living room, and I immediately noticed something off.
As usual, my mother lay on the couch instead of bustling around the kitchen.
My father lingered in the adjoining room, as quiet as ever.
I shot Robert a questioning glance, and he raised an eyebrow.
Something was wrong. My mother’s weak smile and pale face held an unsettling mix of fragility and anticipation.
Louisa and Jean sat nearby, their Sunday best clashing with their tired expressions.
Louisa looked worn down by her four children, the youngest strapped to her chest in a baby carrier.
Predictably, her husband was nowhere to be seen, likely off socializing with Matt and Jason while leaving her to manage their kids alone.
With her fair skin and vibrant red curls, Jean watched as her daughter, Aurora, meandered toward Robert with her handheld video game.
Her long, brown curls framed her rich, sepia-toned skin—a striking variation of Jean’s, yet her personality set her apart.
Only a few months older than Eddy, she had just turned seventeen and already felt too old for all of this.
I had to smile at how much my nieces and nephews loved Robert. He was so good with them. I could only imagine him with our future children.
I sat at my mother’s feet, squeezing into the cramped space as my sisters shifted to make room. My mother’s smile widened slightly. “Bree, you look lovely today,” she said softly, her voice uncharacteristically delicate.
Unease crept up my spine. Compliments from Martha always came with strings. What was going on?
“Are you feeling okay?” I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral while studying her face.
She nodded her serene expression at odds with the tension radiating through the room. “I’m fine, sweetie. I’m just glad you could make it to dinner. I wish you’d come early for church…”
There it was—the usual jab. I held back an eye roll and offered a hollow apology. “I’m sorry, Mom.” Shifting uncomfortably, I decided to rip the bandage off. “But we have some exciting news—”
Before I could finish, she gasped, her eyes lighting up. “Oh, Bree, I’m so excited for you—you’re pregnant!”
I clenched my teeth and sighed, suppressing the sharp frustration bubbling up. Of course, my mother’s excitement hinged on the assumption that I was having a baby. Nothing else about my life seemed to matter.
“No, Mom, we’re not pregnant,” I corrected, my tone firmer than intended. “Robert got into a graduate program, and we’re moving to England.”
The room froze. Childish laughter, adult chatter—everything fell silent. You could hear a pin drop.
Aurora’s bright voice broke the tension. “New England?” she asked, confused.
Robert chuckled gently, his voice soothing. “No, Aurora, Old England.”
The explanation shattered the dam. Aurora’s face froze as the younger nieces wailed and rushed to Robert, clinging to him as if their tiny arms could keep him from leaving.
“We don’t want you to go!” they cried, their voices piercing.
I blinked back tears, forcing myself to stay composed. The air felt still, like the moment before a tomb cracks open—like something sacred had just died, or maybe risen, but it was too late for us to witness it.
My gaze shifted to my mother, bracing for her reaction. Anger? Disappointment? Instead, her expression showed only confusion.
Since I moved out with Robert, she abandoned the belief that I would be here to take care of her and my father. It was as if the moment I decided to live my own life, our mangled bond collapsed.
“When was this decided?” she asked, her voice trembling.
Aurora walked over and sat next to me, her arms draped over me like she did as a little girl. I patted her arm softly. “We’ve been discussing it since November. He got the official acceptance last week from the University of York.”
Her face remained blank for a beat. I looked around the room and realized all side conversations had stopped. Even the ham in the oven had stopped sizzling. Then, my mother burst into tears.
The sound jarred me, but it wasn’t unfamiliar. My mother was a frequent overreactor, but this felt different—unnatural.
My stomach twisted as I looked around the room, searching for support, but my siblings’ expressions held only disgust.
Louisa opened her mouth, slowly bouncing the baby attached to her.
Then Jean slammed forward in her chair, her eyes locked onto mine, burning.
“Mom is…”
She didn’t shout it—she launched it. “Mom is dying of cancer, you bitch.”
The room tilted. I was suddenly aware of the weight of my sweater on my shoulders, the tacky remnants of the preschooler’s hug still clinging to my neck like an afterthought. My vision blurred, and for a split second, I wondered if I had misheard.
Had I been told this and just forgotten?
Cancer wasn’t new to our family—it had ravaged my mother before. In 2011, she’d undergone a mastectomy to remove a tumor the size of a softball, followed by chemotherapy and hormonal treatment. By 2012, the doctors cleared her, and we celebrated with cake.
Three days ago, she’d told me she felt well enough to return to work. How had everything changed so quickly?
My head snapped to my mother, who buried her face in her hands. Robert reached for my shoulder, his steadying hand grounding me as I struggled to process. Anger replaced my confusion. Of course. Of course, this was how I’d find out in a room full of strangers who shared my blood.
“When did this happen?” Robert asked, his calm tone breaking through the tension.
My father stepped forward, his hand resting on my mother’s shoulder with surprising gentleness. “We got the diagnosis on Monday. Your mother wanted to wait until everyone was here to tell you.”
“Why?” I managed to ask, my voice cracking. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
My father sighed heavily. “Your mother didn’t want to upset you over the phone. We know you’re sensitive to bad news.”
I almost laughed at the absurdity of his response. Sensitive? How did lying about her health help anyone?
“Is it the breast cancer again?” I asked, cutting through the noise in my head.
My mother nodded, her sobs quieting enough for my father to answer. “It’s stage four. It metastasized to her liver, lungs, and bones. Chemotherapy won’t help. The doctors said it’s all over.”
The words felt unreal, as if I had heard them through a thick fog. My siblings’ glares pierced me, their silent accusations growing louder every second.
“What’s the plan?” I asked, forcing myself to focus.
“We’ll move in with Renee,” my mother said, referring to her best friend down the street. “She’s offered to help with home care. I’m not going to fight this, Bree. I want peace.”
“How much time?” I asked, bracing for the answer.
Jean glared at me, her tone venomous. “Why does it matter? You’re too busy moving to England.”
I ignored her, turning to my father. “Three to five months,” he said quietly. “She doesn’t want hospice. Just comfort.”
The weight of their words settled over me. For years, I’d tolerated my mother’s jabs, her impossible expectations, her constant comparisons. But this wasn’t about me anymore.
“What can I do to help?” I asked, determination replacing the shock.
My mother smiled weakly, her expression tinged with sadness. “Bree, just live your life. I don’t want you here—you’ll get in the way.”
The words punched me in the gut. I glanced at my siblings, their faces cold with agreement. Even now, my mother felt she didn’t need me at the end of her life. It was clear from my family that I wasn’t wanted.
All because I chose to live my own life, I had been extracted from theirs.
“But I can help,” I said, desperation creeping into my voice. “I can take you to appointments or—”
“No.” My mother cut me off firmly. “Visit when you want, but don’t waste your time.”
Robert’s hand tightened on my shoulder. For once, I didn’t flinch away. I leaned into him, letting his presence anchor me as my mother dismissed my attempts to be there for her.
“I’ll help, even if you don’t want me to,” I said quietly.
The look in their eyes said it all.
Even now, I wasn’t family. Just a guest in their grief.