17.
The air outside the facility was warmer than it had been the last time I visited.
Spring had finally decided to show up.
The trees lining the sidewalk had started filling in again, soft green leaves catching the sunlight. A few residents sat scattered around the courtyard with nurses, wrapped in blankets even though the day was nice.
My mom's wheelchair rested beside the bench while she talked.
"...and Shauna says they might put me on hospice next month," she was saying.
I nodded automatically.
"Yeah," I said.
But the word came out too delayed.
My mom stopped talking.
"Naomi."
Her voice pulled me back.
I blinked, realizing she'd been looking at me for a few seconds.
"Sorry," I said quickly. "I was just thinking about something."
Her eyebrows lifted slightly.
"Work?"
I nodded.
"Something like that."
She studied me for another moment, the way she always did when she was trying to figure out if I was telling the truth or just giving her the version of it she wanted to hear.
Then her gaze dropped to my jacket.
"Sweetie," she said gently, "you can take that off. It's beautiful outside."
I glanced down at the sleeves.
The jacket was zipped almost all the way up even though the sun was warm against the pavement.
"I'm okay," I said. "I'm a little cold."
My mom smiled faintly. "You always did run colder than everyone else."
I forced a small smile back.
The truth was the jacket had nothing to do with the weather.
The bruises along my arms had faded from deep purple to a dull over the past few days, but they were still visible if someone looked closely enough.
My mom didn't need to see that.
Not right now.
Not ever, if I could help it.
She adjusted the blanket over her legs.
The chemo had changed her in ways that still startled me sometimes if I looked too long.
Her hair was completely gone now.
Her skin had taken on that thin, papery look that came with months of treatment. Her collarbones pushed sharply against the fabric of her sweater, and even sitting still seemed to take more effort than it used to.
But the thing that stood out most was how cold she always looked.
Even today.
The sun warmed the courtyard, but my mom kept pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders.
"Do you want to go back inside?" I asked.
She nodded almost immediately.
"Yes, please."
I stood and moved behind the wheelchair, unlocking the brakes.
The wheels rolled smoothly along the concrete as we headed back toward the building.
Inside, the familiar smell of disinfectant and stale air wrapped around us the moment the doors opened.
The hallway lights buzzed faintly overhead.
An attendant at the front desk waved as we passed.
"Back already?" she called.
"Getting too chilly out there," my mom answered for me.
We made our way slowly down the hall to her room.
I helped position the wheelchair beside the bed before she reached for the side rail and carefully shifted herself back onto the mattress.
The effort made her breathing slightly heavier.
I adjusted the blanket over her legs again.
"Shauna's on lunch," my mom said after a moment. "She'll be back in twenty minutes or so."
I nodded and pulled the chair beside the bed closer so I could sit.
For a few seconds we just looked at each other.
Then she asked the question I'd been expecting.
"How's Rodney?"
The answer came automatically.
"He's good."
She nodded.
"He's on a business trip right now," I added. "Missouri."
"That man is always traveling," she said.
I gave a small shrug. "He's busy."
My mom studied me again for a moment.
"You know," she said slowly, "I don't always agree with the things I see him doing on television."
My stomach tightened slightly.
"But he's such a sweet young man."
I kept my expression steady.
"He's been very good to you."
I nodded.
"Yeah."
She smiled faintly.
"You should bring him next time you visit."
The thought alone made something uncomfortable settle in my chest.
"I'll try," I said. "He's just so busy these days."
My mom seemed satisfied with that answer.
She leaned back into the pillows, adjusting the blanket again.
After a moment she said quietly,
"I wish I could meet my grandchild before I go."
The words hit me harder than I expected.
"Mom," I said immediately. "Don't say that."
She let out a small laugh.
"Naomi."
"You're not dying," I insisted.
She shook her head slightly.
"The doctors said if I get six months I'm lucky."
"That's not what they said," I replied quickly. "They said six months to two years."
She raised one eyebrow.
"Youre always so optimistic."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
She reached over and squeezed my hand weakly.
"Sweetheart... if I wake up tomorrow still able to move my head, that's already luck."
I swallowed.
"You're not going anywhere yet."
She smiled softly.
"We'll see."
Neither of us said anything after that.
The room went quiet except for the faint sound of footsteps in the hallway outside.
After a moment I leaned forward and kissed her forehead.
"I'll come back tomorrow," I said.
Her eyes closed briefly as she smiled.
"I'd like that."
I stayed there a second longer than necessary, my hand still resting lightly over hers.
Her skin felt thinner than I remembered.
Fragile.
Like if I held on too tightly she might disappear under my fingers.
"I'll see you tomorrow," I said quietly.
She nodded.
I stood and pulled the blanket a little higher over her shoulders before stepping out of the room.
The hallway lights hummed softly overhead.
For a moment I just stood there outside the door, letting the quiet settle around me again.
The conversation with my mom lingered in my chest — that familiar weight that followed me every time I left this place.
Six months.
Two years.
Neither number ever felt real.
I exhaled slowly and started down the hallway toward the exit.
Outside, the late afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the parking lot.
The air was warmer than it had been earlier, but the breeze still carried that faint bite of spring that hadn't fully settled yet.
I reached my car and pulled my keys from my bag.
That's when my phone started ringing.
The sound made me pause.
Grant.
His name lit up across the screen.
For a moment I just stared at it.
He'd called before.
A few times over the past couple days.
Texted too.
Checking in.
Making sure I was okay.
I hadn't answered any of them.
The phone continued vibrating in my hand.
I knew exactly what would happen if I picked up.
He would ask questions.
Where I'd been.
What happened that night.
Questions that would force me to either lie to him or tell him something I wasn't ready to say out loud.
The ringing stopped.
The screen went dark again.
For a second the parking lot was completely silent.
Then the phone buzzed again.
Another call.
Same name glowing across the screen.
My chest tightened a little.
I watched it ring this time too.
Watched his name sit there waiting for me to answer.
And still didn't move.
After a few seconds the ringing stopped again.
The screen went dark.
I slipped the phone back into my bag and opened the car door.
But as I slid into the driver's seat, I couldn't shake the quiet feeling sitting in my chest.
Because even though I hadn't answered...
A part of me really wanted to.
The drive back into the city felt longer than usual.
Traffic crawled through the late afternoon streets, brake lights stretching in a red line ahead of me while the radio murmured quietly in the background. I barely registered any of it.
By the time I pulled onto the quiet street where the house sat, the sun had started dipping lower behind the buildings.
The place looked exactly the same from the outside.
Tall iron gate.
Stone steps.
The same carefully trimmed hedges lining the walkway.
But something about it felt different now.
Quieter.
Almost abandoned.
I unlocked the front door and stepped inside.
The silence hit immediately.
No voices.
No staff moving through the halls.
No smell of food coming from the kitchen.
The house had always been busy before Rodney officially moved us into the White House. Assistants, security, cooks, housekeepers — there was always someone passing through.
Now it felt hollow.
A shell of something that used to be lived in.
My footsteps echoed faintly across the marble floor as I moved through the foyer.
The kitchen confirmed it.
The refrigerator was nearly empty when I opened it. A few bottles of water. Some old condiments shoved into the door. Nothing else.
I closed the door again and leaned against the counter for a second.
It didn't take long for the quiet to start feeling too loud.
So I went upstairs.
The hallway lights clicked on automatically as I moved toward the bedroom.
Most of Rodney's things were still here.
Some of my clothes too.
But even this room felt like it had been paused in time.
Like someone had walked out and never bothered to come back.
I stepped inside and dropped my bag on the chair near the door.
The bed was still made.
Perfectly neat.
As I walked around the side of it, something caught my eye.
A small piece of red fabric near Rodney's side of the mattress.
I bent down and picked it up.
A thong.
Red lace.
For a second I stared at it, trying to place it.
It looked familiar.
Maybe it was mine.
I had things like this.
Or at least... I used to.
I turned it over once in my fingers before tossing it casually onto the bed.
Probably just laundry that got mixed up when everything moved.
I didn't think about it again.
Instead, I reached for my laptop at the foot of the bed and pulled it onto my lap, leaning back against the headboard as the screen flickered to life.
The Georgetown application was still open, frozen on the final page exactly where I'd left it days ago, as if it had been sitting here patiently waiting for me to decide who I was going to be.
For a moment I simply looked at it.
My personal statement.