She’s known for at least a week.
And she didn’t tell me.
“I wanted one more normal Christmas,” Mom says, and now she’s really crying. Not delicate tears anymore but full sobs. “I wanted to give you boys one more perfect holiday before everything changed again. I wanted?—”
I want to argue. Want to rage. Want to tear this whole perfect living room apart because none of it matters. The Christmas tree doesn’t matter. The presents don’t matter. The cinnamon rolls and the gas fireplace and the family we were supposed to be—none of it fucking matters if Mom is dying.
All 917 rules I’ve written. Everything. Everything.Everything.
None of it fucking matters if Mom is dying.
But I can’t say any of that.
So instead I just stand there, hands clenched into fists at my sides.
Fists. Both hands. Even number. Symmetrical.
My nails dig into my palms. Four fingers and a thumb on each side.
Breathing hard like I’ve been running.
Count the breaths: Too fast. Too many. Can’t count them. Lost the pattern.
The grandfather clock in the hallway ticks.
The fire crackles.
Someone’s phone buzzes—Z’s probably, forgotten on the coffee table.
And Mom is still lying on the couch with gray-tinged lips and hollowed-out eyes and a smile that doesn’t reach anywhere near her face.
“I’m going to be okay,” she says, and it’s not clear if she’s talking to me or Harper or herself. “We caught it early this time. We have options. Dr. Martinez is optimistic?—”
“Dr. Martinez is always optimistic,” I hear myself say. Flat. Mechanical. “That’s her job.”
I know I’m being cruel. I know I’m making this worse. I know I should be comforting her, holding her, telling her everything’s going to be okay, like I did when I was twelve.
But I can’t.
Because this time I know better.
This time, I know what “multiple nodules” means.
This time, I know that “we’ll fight” is just another way of saying “we’re running out of options.”
“I need to—” I start, but I don’t know how to finish that sentence.
I need to leave. I need to scream. I need to break something. I need to rewind time and force her to tell me sooner so I could have—what? Done something? Fixed it?
But how? There’s certainly nothing I can do now.
That’s the worst part.
All my control, all my planning, all my rules and schedules and perfect behavior—none of it can stop this.
I can’t fix this.
I turn toward the stairs without another word.