Chapter 37
Lily
The first wave hit so fast, I barely made it to the bathroom.
One second, I was standing at the counter, trying to convince myself I was fine, just worn out from the week. Next, I was on my knees, clutching the toilet, my stomach twisting itself inside out.
I heaved until there was nothing left, shaking and clammy, the floor cool against my cheek as I collapsed sideways. My hair stuck to my temples. The tile smelled like cat hair and dust. I couldn’t move.
Time bent in strange ways. Seconds, minutes—I couldn’t tell the difference.
The ceiling blurred in and out of focus, my own ragged breaths the only sound I could hang on to.
I don’t know how long I lay there, slipping between waves of nausea and the numb, hollow ache that came after.
Long enough for the stillness to sink its claws in.
And when it did, my mind betrayed me. The quiet cracked open, and memories flooded in—the kind I’d spent years shoving down.
I was seven, too small to reach the faucet, curled on the floor of a kitchen that wasn’t mine.
My stomach cramped, fever spiking, while the TV blared in the other room.
They’d told me to “wait it out.” I’d whispered to myself to stay quiet, because sick kids were “too much work,” and I didn’t want to be sent away again.
I was twelve, shivering on the cold tile of a basement, quarantined with the flu because the foster mom didn’t want me near her kids. No blanket. No medicine. Just a plastic trash can shoved my way. “Don’t make a mess,” she’d said.
I was fifteen, fever burning, the mattress springs biting into my back because no one had bothered to change the sheets when the last kid left. I’d cried into the pillow, muffling the sound, because no one ever came when I did.
Every time I got sick, it was the same. Invisible. Unwanted. Something to be managed, not cared for.
The memories rolled over me as another wave of nausea dragged me upright. My arms shook so badly I nearly missed the toilet. By the end, I was sprawled on the bathroom floor, sobbing between breaths.
I barely registered the front door creaking open, Carol’s voice calling out, “Lily? Just wanted to hear about your day… Lily?” She came closer, footsteps quick and certain, no hesitation about walking straight into my mess.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
Her voice broke, and then she was there—kneeling on the tile, one hand steady on my back, the other brushing damp strands of hair out of my face.
I didn’t have the strength to say anything, not even to tell her to leave.
All I could do was cry—quiet, miserable tears that slid down my cheeks even as my stomach clenched again.
She didn’t flinch. She stayed, whispering soft nothings that sounded like comfort even through the fog.
Time blurred after that. I don’t know how long I knelt there, emptying everything I had until there was nothing left.
The retching eased into dry heaves, then into shudders that rattled my ribs.
Carol never moved except to press a cool cloth onto my forehead, to steady the glass of water when she thought I could sip.
Finally, when my body sagged, hollowed out, she smoothed my hair back and asked softly, “Think you can make it to bed, sweetheart?”
I cried harder at that—ugly, broken tears I couldn’t stop.
Because no one had ever taken care of me before.
No one had ever stayed. The part of me that wanted to shrink away couldn’t compete with the part of me that leaned into her arm as she coaxed me upright, and helped me hobble out of that bathroom.
“Shh, I’ve got you,” she murmured.
Carol eased me down the hall, her arm strong and steady around my shoulders, even when my legs trembled beneath me.
In my room, she coaxed me to sit on the edge of the bed, then crouched in front of me, hands gentle as she tugged at my damp shirt.
I wanted to tell her not to bother, that I could do it myself, but the words snagged in my throat and came out as more tears.
She hushed me softly, slipping the clean fabric over my head like I was a child again, smoothing the hem so it lay flat.
“That’s better, dear,” she murmured, helping me lie back against the pillows. She drew the blanket up to my chin, tucking it in with practiced care, the way mothers do without thinking. Her palm was soft on my forehead—warm, grounding—while I shook beneath it, too tired to do anything but cry.
Only when I was settled did she leave my side, padding softly back toward the bathroom. I caught the faint swish of water, the sharp tang of bleach rising through the air. The sounds blurred together as my eyes slipped shut—proof she was still there, tending to the mess I couldn’t.
I drifted in and out through the night, each time expecting her to be gone. But every time I opened my eyes, she was still there—sitting in the chair by my bed, a book on her lap, or just watching with that patient, steady presence.
By morning, my body still ached, but my mind was clear enough to notice.
The house was spotless. My bathroom smelled of Carol’s lemon cleaner.
A fresh pitcher of water sat within reach.
Lucky was curled at the foot of the bed like a sentry who’d pulled an all-nighter, blinking up at me with that offended, relieved look only cats can manage.
And Carol was still there, looking up the second I stirred.
My throat went tight. “Why are you still here?” I whispered, voice raspy.
She set the book aside, leaning closer so her voice was steady and sure.
“Because you were sick, and I care about you. I’ll always be here when you need me, Lily.”
And just like that, the dam inside me cracked again.
Tears burned my eyes as the words tumbled out—the foster homes, the neglect, the way no one had ever wanted me to stay.
I told her how my mom signed away her rights before I was even out of the hospital blanket, how my life began with a clipboard signature instead of a name spoken with love.
My breath hitched. “There was this one family,” I whispered.
“I lived with them for two years when I was little. They used to braid my hair for church and let me help stir pancake batter on Saturdays. I thought they were it. I thought I finally… belonged.” My voice thinned.
“But then she got pregnant, and suddenly I was ‘too much’ with a baby on the way. They packed my things and sent me back like I was a mistake they could return.”
The words scraped up like splinters, unstoppable now. “After that, no one wanted a kid my age. Everyone wanted babies. I was just… the leftover. The one you take until something better comes along.”
I swiped at my cheeks, but the tears kept coming. “I used to lie awake wondering what was wrong with me. Why my parents gave me up. Why every family let me go. What I did to make people decide I wasn’t worth keeping.”
I braced for judgment, for pity. For the look I’d always gotten before—discomfort, annoyance, people wishing I’d just shut up.
But Carol only reached for my hand, her thumb brushing slow circles into my skin.
“Oh, Lily.” Her voice wavered, warm as it wrapped around me. “You’ve been carrying this alone for so long. No wonder you’re so tired.”
Fresh tears blurred my vision. “I don’t know how to let anyone help me. I don’t even know if I can.”
“You don’t have to know,” Carol said firmly. “You just have to let yourself be here. Right now. With me. And trust that I’m not going anywhere.”
I shook my head, overwhelmed. “But what if you change your mind? What if one day you just…” I couldn’t finish.
Her grip tightened, steady and sure. “Then I’ll tell you again and again until you believe me. From this moment on, you are my family, Lily. Even when Summerfest ends, even if you move on, I’ll still be here.”
My tears ran dry, but I kept holding on to her hand like it was the only solid thing in the world. Something shifted inside me—a tiny crack in the wall I'd built around myself. Her fingers wrapped around mine spoke a truth I'd never let myself hear before: someone was finally staying.