Chapter 24 Valentina
VALENTINA
Iwas starting to hate hospitals.
They were the kind of place where life and death got measured out in charts and insurance codes; where survival wasn’t just about medicine but about whether or not you could afford the cure.
Dr. Rojas sat across from me and Isabel in an office that felt cold. He was talking, but I was already bracing for the hit. I knew how this worked. A long-winded explanation followed by an apology, followed by the real punchline: money.
“The grant was denied,” he said, and there it was. The gut-punch. The answer we already knew was coming. “I’m sorry.”
Isabel stiffened beside me. “So that’s it?” she asked. “She doesn’t qualify because we’re not rich? Because we don’t have the right connections?”
Dr. Rojas sighed. He seemed tired of this—tired of dealing with people who couldn’t accept the price of treatments. Insurance was a scam. Even he knew it. “I understand this is frustrating—”
“No,” Isabel cut in, shaking her head. “It’s not frustrating. It’s fucking disgusting. You parade these treatments around like miracles, but when real people need them, suddenly, it’s just about money.”
Dr. Rojas nodded. “It’s a difficult topic.”
Difficult. Right. That was what we were calling life-or-death these days.
“What other options do we have?”
He hesitated. “There’s private financing. Or . . .” A pause. “Filing for medical bankruptcy.”
Bankruptcy. The kind of thing that would swallow Isa whole, wreck whatever was left of Mama’s security. The kind of thing Isabel would fight tooth and nail against, because it meant admitting defeat.
But none of it mattered. Not really.
Because I could cover the bills.
I had a few more papers to sign, a few final steps before Max released the money, but once that was done? I could write the check. I could pay for everything.
I just couldn’t tell them.
Because if they knew, they’d know.
They’d ask how, they’d ask why, and no matter how well I lied, Isabel would dig until she found the truth: that I’d sold myself for it.
So I’d have to lie. I’d have to make them believe the grant had come through after all. That some miracle had swooped in at the last second.
I could do that. I was good at lying.
“Are you serious?” she spat. “That’s your advice? Just ruin everything else? We’re trying to save her life, and you’re telling us to tank our future?” Isabel’s voice was rising. “Because that makes so much sense.”
Dr. Rojas was probably used to people losing their shit in his office. “I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear,” he said evenly.
“No kidding.”
“Can we just focus for a second?” I turned back to the doctor. “If we do pull the money together—if we find a way—is the surgery worth it?”
He studied me for a moment before leaning forward. “It’s not a guarantee,” he admitted.
I hated that phrase. Not a guarantee. It meant “maybe.” It meant “We don’t actually know, but we’ll take your money anyway.”
“But given her condition,” he continued, “it’s one of the strongest options we have. Without it . . .” He trailed off, but I heard the rest of the sentence loud and clear.
Without it, Mama died.
“Okay.”
That was the end of it. No grand solution. No magic fix.
And then we left.
Outside the hospital I felt like I was suffocating, even though I knew I’d have it handled in a matter of days. Isa didn’t look much better—face tight, hands balled into fists at her sides, the way they always got when she was trying to hold it all together.
I dug through my purse, pushing past receipts, gum wrappers, and other trash I kept forgetting to toss out, until my fingers finally found the half-empty pack of cigarettes.
I knew Isa hated it when I smoked, and the giant “NO SMOKING” sign glaring at me from a few feet away was begging me not to. Which, of course, was exactly why I lit one up anyway.
She looked at the cigarette between my fingers and said, “We have to sell the house.”
I took a drag, letting the smoke burn all the way down my throat. “Oh, shut up, Isa. You’re not selling the house.”
She crossed her arms, stubborn as always, chin lifted as if the decision had already been made and I was just background noise. “It’s not up for debate.”
“Yeah, actually, it is, because I’m saying no.”
She turned to face me fully. “Do you have a few hundred grand lying around, Val? Do you? Because if you suddenly got rich overnight, then congratulations. But it’s not up to you.”
I clenched my jaw, bitterness rising in the back of my throat. “It’s Mama’s house.”
“It was Mama’s house.”
That hurt. It hurt way more than it should have.
That house wasn’t just a building, it was childhood scraped knees and broken curfews.
It was fights and forgiveness and Sunday dinners.
It was Mama standing at the stove humming songs I’d never learned the names of, the scent of spices and home-cooked meals filling every corner.
It was the last thing left untainted—the last thing I hadn’t already messed up somehow.
And Isa wanted to sell it off like a used car.
“You don’t just sell something like that,” I demanded. “It’s—it’s home, Isa.”
She scoffed, but I saw the hurt beneath it. She wasn’t heartless. “Yeah? Then what’s your brilliant plan? Magic? A lottery ticket? Maybe pray some rich asshole suddenly decides to hand us a miracle?”
I bit my tongue, tasting copper and guilt. Because I was exactly that rich asshole.
Well, almost.
Money always came with strings attached, and these strings were tangled tight around my throat, choking out the truth every time I tried to speak it.
So instead I stayed quiet, ground the cigarette under my heel, and lied the only way I knew how—by saying nothing at all.
But silence had a cost too. It built up inside me, brick by brick, until it felt heavy enough to crush my ribs.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone this long without a drink.
I think it had been five whole days.
Not that I was counting. I definitely wasn’t. This wasn’t some life-changing spiritual awakening kind of thing. I hadn’t woken up one morning and dramatically dumped every bottle of Grey Goose down the drain, vowing never again. It had just sort of . . . happened.
One night I skipped my usual glass. And then I skipped another, and another, until suddenly, I realized I wasn’t even missing it.
And honestly, that realization freaked me out a little.
Alcohol and I were long-term partners. Comfortable companions.
Loyal to a fault. It wasn’t about getting drunk, despite what Max liked to think.
It was about quiet. It was about control—or at least the illusion of it.
I liked how it dulled the noise. Made the mess in my head feel like background static instead of a blaring siren. Just a little easier to swallow.
But now it had been a week. I hadn’t even poured a glass. Hadn’t reached for the bottle. Hadn’t even thought about it.
Okay, maybe I’d thought about it, but not in the way I used to. Not like a craving. More like a ghost I kept expecting to see in the mirror, only to realize it hadn’t followed me.
And I didn’t know what to do with that. With the absence. With the quiet.
If I wasn’t drinking to cope, then what the hell was I doing? Who was I without it? And worse, why had I stopped? I hadn’t woken up one morning full of enlightenment and self-love. I hadn’t had a breakdown or a breakthrough or whatever else made people quit for good. I’d just . . . stopped.
And I hated that I couldn’t figure out why.
Okay. No. That was a lie.
I knew exactly why.
Marco.
It was the look he’d given me in the courthouse, and then later on that night. That one glance—that stupid, stupid judgmental glance. The one that said he expected better of me. Or worse, he didn’t.
I slid into the seat beside Greg, mostly because watching him tense up whenever I came near him was the only real entertainment this place had to offer.
I wasn’t like the people in these meetings—the ones who clutched their coffee cups like lifelines and counted their sober days as if they were tally marks on a prison wall.
And yet here I was. At another AA meeting. Another hour of my life I wasn’t getting back.
“Hey, Greg,” I said with a smile. “How’s the wife?”
His jaw twitched, shoulders tightening just slightly. Poor guy.
“She’s fine,” he said stiffly, still refusing to look at me.
“Glad to hear it. Keeping out of trouble, I hope?”
“I signed your damn slip already. What more do you want?”
“Just checking in,” I said, giving him a smile I knew irritated the hell out of him. “It’s called being supportive, Greg.”
He muttered something I didn’t catch—though it definitely wasn’t “Thanks, Valentina. You’re the best.”
Around us, the usual stories dragged on. Lost jobs, ruined marriages, apologies made too late. I leaned back, studying the worn linoleum beneath my shoes, wondering if this was actually helping anyone. Because it wasn’t helping me. Or maybe it was, and that was why I was so restless.
Either way, sitting here watching people bare their souls for an audience of strangers, I felt more out of place than ever. Like I’d accidentally wandered into someone else’s confessional and wasn’t sure how to gracefully back out.
I should’ve felt bad for them. I should’ve felt something, anything, other than mild annoyance at being forced to listen to yet another sob story about rock bottom and redemption.
But all I could think was, Jesus, at least you have an excuse.
What was my reason? What was my grand excuse for being here?
Why did I drink anyway? Because I liked it? Because it felt good to have something easy and predictable, even if only temporarily? Because it was just easier than dealing with reality head-on?
Honestly, it was probably all of the above and none of it at the same time. Maybe it had nothing to do with feeling good at all, and everything to do with feeling less.
Less angry. Less afraid. Less alone.
I chewed the inside of my cheek, staring at my chipped nail polish instead of the faces around me, because the second I started making eye contact, these people might think we were friends. They might start asking what had given me the urge to start drinking in the first place.
Did it start after Mama got sick, when the thought of losing her became so overwhelming that reality just wasn’t enough anymore? Or was it after Cillian died, leaving me in the wreckage of a life I’d never actually chosen for myself?
The chair beside me squeaked loudly, snapping me back to the present. The woman across from me dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, mascara smudged beneath her lashes.
“. . . and every night, I tell myself, just one drink. Just one.” She laughed weakly, her voice breaking. “But we all know how that goes. It’s never just one. Now here I am, back in my mom’s basement at thirty-six.”
A few solemn nods around the circle, a few quiet murmurs of understanding.
I glanced around. The same faces I saw every time.
The guy who’d lost custody of his kids and still couldn’t talk about it without choking up.
The woman who’d lost her job, her house, and everything in between.
The quiet man in the corner who never said a word but always showed up like clockwork, probably waiting for the courage to finally speak.
And then there was me.
Me, who hadn’t lost anything—not really. Not anything tangible anyway. Unless pride counted as a legitimate loss. And maybe dignity. Could you lose dignity if you willingly threw it away? I wasn’t sure.
“Valentina,” Greg, said from across the circle. “Would you like to share today?”
I arched a brow. “I think we all know the answer to that.”
Greg didn’t answer. He gave me a nod and let the quiet stretch awkwardly through the room.
I shifted uncomfortably in the plastic chair. “I don’t have a story like that.” I gestured vaguely at the group. “No rock bottom. No dramatic moment of realization where I woke up in a ditch or got arrested for public indecency.”
A few people chuckled softly, but Greg just smiled, annoyingly patient.
“I just . . . drink.”
A woman to my right, Janine, gave a soft hum. “But you’re here.”
No shit, Janine.
“Why?” Greg asked.
I sighed, pushing my hair away from my face. “Because someone else thinks I should be.”
“Do you agree with them?”
“I have no idea.” I shrugged. “Maybe I just don’t have anything better to do.”
More gentle laughter from the circle, more understanding nods, and more of those sympathetic smiles that made me want to scream.
Greg leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. “Maybe you haven’t found your reason yet,” he said softly. “But sometimes, just showing up is enough.”
It hadn’t been enough when I’d needed those damn signatures, but it was enough now?
He said it like it meant something profound, and maybe it did to everyone else in the room. But to me, it felt like another hollow line. Another empty promise.
Because what happened if I never found my reason?
What happened if showing up was all I could manage, and even that was only because someone else was pulling my strings?
What then, Greg?