Chapter 7 - Lucy
I’d planned to work from home today so I could have one day without commuting.
That was the lie I told myself when I walked into the kitchen just after six, careful not to make noise, careful not to wake anyone. Working from home meant staying close. It meant pretending proximity was the same thing as control.
I make my coffee and watch the sky warm outside, while I absorb the quiet.
The rare moment of peace in my day. I hear Mom and Em in the hallway and get back to my morning routine, topping off my coffee as the kettle clicks on.
I make tea the way Mom likes it, organic honey, not sugar, and carry it into the living room where she’s propped up against pillows, wrapped in one of Em’s Feinberg hoodies like armour.
She looks smaller this morning. Pain does that to her. It carves away at the edges, leaving behind something more fragile than she ever wants us to see.
Her hair has gone more silver than brown in the last few years, thinning at the temples.
Her face is still beautiful, with faint lines that frame her kind eyes, but exhaustion lives there now, settled deep.
Em has her eyes. I have her mouth. The shape of it, the way it presses tight when she’s holding something in.
Em is a blur of chaos in the hallway, shouts something about running late and lectures and a test... then she is out the door before I can say a thing. So, I turn my focus back on mom.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, already knowing the answer will be edited.
She flexes her fingers, winces, then shrugs. “Better than last night.”
That usually means not better at all. But I don't push it.
I hand her the mug and sit across from her, set my coffee down, and pull the folder out of my bag. It’s worn from use, insurance letters, bills, appointment printouts, and notes I’ve scribbled in the margins at three in the morning.
I go through every page while she sips her tea and tries to get comfortable.
What’s due now.
What can wait.
What absolutely can’t.
Her medications are lined up on the counter in their organizer, a quiet parade of necessity. The newer ones help more, but the cost is brutal. The side effects worse. The specialist we are waiting to see is still our best shot in years.
“I called Dr Teller's office again this morning,” I tell her. “They say you are on the list but are waiting for an opening in his schedule.”
Mom sighs. “Lucy...”
“I know,” I say quickly. “I just wanted to check. I don't want them to forget.”
She watches me the way she always does, not just seeing me, but measuring. Mothers know when something is weighing on you long before you say it out loud.
“You don’t have to carry this alone,” she says gently. "This isn't on you, honey."
I smile because she needs me to. “I know.”
What I don’t say is that getting her added to my insurance after she lost her job nearly broke me. Forms. Appeals. Phone calls that went nowhere.
I’d had to check a box that said she couldn’t care for herself anymore.
Had to declare her medically dependent.
Unfit to work.
I’d signed my name beneath it and watched something dim in her eyes.
I still hate that I was the one who had to do it.
The phone rings.
I don’t recognize the number, but my stomach clenches anyway.
“Lucy Bennett,” I answer.
“Lucy, it’s Karen,” my boss says.
I glance at Mom. She’s already watching me, concern flickering across her face.
“Do you have a minute?” Karen asks.
I step into the hallway and close the door behind me. “Of course.”
“We’ve got a new client,” she says. “Corporate. Big one.”
I close my eyes.
“Karen, I... today’s not great. I was actually planning to work from home. Emily is in class all day today...”
“I know,” she says gently. “And I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
Karen knows about Mom. Not because I asked for special treatment, but because two years ago, I’d disappeared from work for a week when Mom was hospitalized. I’d told the truth then because I had no choice. Karen hadn’t pried. She’d just covered my clients and told me to take the time I needed.
Trust earned quietly.
“It’s already signed,” Karen continues. “They just need someone to run it. Maisie was supposed to be on it, but she had to back out.”
I lean against the wall, staring at the framed photo of Em on her undergrad graduation day, cap crooked, smile proud and fierce.
“What kind of event?” I ask.
“Internal corporate,” she says. “High budget. Clean execution. Minimal emotion.”
Not my usual world.
“And the payout?” I ask quietly.
There’s a pause. Intentional.
“It would cover a chunk of what you need for the trial,” she says.
My breath catches. I have to blink back the tears. I close my eyes and breathe through it. I see Mom’s hands swelling again. Hear the word “progression.” I see the red circle around the specialist’s name.
I don’t speak for a long moment.
“Lucy,” Karen says with quiet care, “I wouldn’t put this on you if I didn’t think you could handle it. I know you have a full roster of clients... but this could be good for you.”
I think about the pill organizer. Em in class all day, drowning in lectures and debt and determination.
“Where?” I ask.
“Northwell Holdings.”
The name means nothing to me. But the money could mean everything.
“Okay,” I say, even as my heart beats faster. “I’ll come in.”
When I hang up, Mom is standing in the doorway.
“You’re going to work,” she says.
“I don’t want to,” I admit.
“But you will,” she replies. “Because that’s who you are. You show up when you are needed.”
I hesitate. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”
“I’ll be fine for a few hours,” she insists. “Em’s a phone call away. And I’m not helpless.”
She lifts my chin gently, her fingers cold against my skin. “Go.”
I dress quickly. Hair pulled into a low, messy bun. Just polished enough to look intentional. Wide-leg camel trousers that make me feel steady. A soft off-white sweater, comfortable, clean, and professional.
I catch my reflection in the mirror.
I look professional but frayed at the edges.
I feel like maybe I need a blazer or some sort of corporate armour, but today, soft feels necessary.
I kiss Mom’s cheek, promise to call, promise not to stay late, promises I always mean, even when I can’t keep them. Because money doesn't grow on trees, and I don't have anyone to fall back on, to rely on.
Outside, the city moves the way it always does, indifferent to my feelings, relentless. I fall into step with it, my mind already shifting into planning mode.
Corporate events aren’t about warmth.
They’re about precision.
By the time I reach the building Karen texted me the address for, I’ve already started breaking down the event in my head: timelines, staffing, and flow.
Northwell Holdings rises in front of me; all glass and steel and authority.
I pause at the entrance for half a second.
This is just another job, I tell myself.