“I’m sorry, but if your mother doesn’t have surgery soon, she won’t make it,” Dr. Collins says, urging me to speak to my mom and knock some sense into her. I wish I could.

I avoid his eyes, gazing down the hallway of the hospital, but when I see a man walk out of a room with tears streaming down his face, I look back at Dr. Collins. I’d rather look at him than see someone who has just been destroyed.

“How much longer does she have?” I ask, needing to know how much more time I have to scrape together every penny I can.

Since I’m paying in cash, the hospital is giving me a thirty percent discount on the cost of her surgery. That doesn’t make it any cheaper, though. I have to front $18,000 in cash, and they will let me pay off the remaining balance in installments.

But as of right now, I’m short $1,784.

His eyes slide to my mom lying in the hospital bed through the open door of her room. “Two months, and that’s being generous.” He flips through the chart in his hands, reading all the medical jargon on my mom. “She’s been in the hospital three times in the last month. It won’t be much longer until she will need to be here long term.” He closes the chart, tucking it under his arm. “The longer this goes on, the more pain she’s going to be in.”

I cross my arms over my chest, staring at the ground, willing it to give me the answers.

What does he want me to do? Does he think I like watching my own mother deteriorate before my eyes? Because I don’t. I don’t want to watch her fight to breathe or see the anguish written across her face because she feels like her heart is being ripped out of her chest. I don’t want any of this, but what choice do I have? I can’t force her to do anything. I can beg and pled, but at the end of the day, it’s her decision, not mine.

I wish I could tell her that I have the money right now to cover all the expenses of her surgery, but I don’t. I could lie to her, but she would see straight through me.

What do you do when your mother won’t let you help her the way she helped you your whole life?

Nothing–you do nothing, because she won’t let you do anything, no matter how much it kills you.

I look up at the doctor, not really seeing him. “I’ll, uh, try to talk to her.” It’s all I can do, and that in itself makes me feel utterly useless.

“Let me know if you have any questions,” he says before he walks away, leaving me in a busy hospital hallway–alone.

I feel that way often–deserted, forgotten. Even in a crowded room, surrounded by people, I feel like I’m the only one standing, like I’m the only one who feels broken and defeated while everyone else passes by, carrying on with their lives.

Doctors and nurses rush around me, carrying charts and talking on their phones, while I stay rooted in place, tired of doing this song and dance. Everyone in this hospital is fighting to live–fighting to survive. Everyone but my mom.

My eyes close, needing the world around me to disappear–fade away into nothing. Pounding reverberates through my ears, mimicking the beat of my heart. I focus on the rhythm–steady, sure, and consistent. It’s reliable and always there unlike everything else.

The constant worry and anxiety that courses through me dissipates as I focus on each beat, inhaling and exhaling each time my heart pounds in my chest.

Opening my eyes, I find the same whirlwind of doctors and nurses passing through the hallway, caring for patients. Everything keeps moving no matter how much you will it to stop–if you stop, if you die, the world continues on without you. Just like I’ll have to keep moving if my mom dies without getting her surgery.

If she went through with the surgery and died, I could feel a little bit better, knowing she tried. She would have tried to get better, to keep living.

But this? This…her withering away at home and at this hospital, I can’t accept it because she’s giving up without putting up a fight.

I clench my hands at my sides, wanting to drive my fist through the wall.

She’s willingly letting herself die when she could save herself. She could save me–from the wrenching pain, from a life of guilt–but she won’t because she believes she’s saving me by killing herself.

How messed up is that?

Turning around, I take the few steps back to Mom’s room and push open the door. I sit in the all too familiar teal cloth chair and watch my mom as she watches the television hanging from the ceiling in front of her.

I scoot the chair closer to her bed and reach for her hand, holding it in mine. Her head turns to me, and she regards me with soft eyes.

Will I be able to look at my own reflection if she dies? Or will I only see her hazel eyes in mine?

“I know what you’re going to say,” she says, her voice hoarse.

“What is that?” I ask.

She smiles weakly. “You want me to have the surgery.”

“Yeah, I do, because I want you to live.”

“Oh, honey.” She slips her hand out of my hold and pats the top of my hand. “I’ve lived–I’ve lived a good life. I had you, and I’m proud of the woman you’ve turned in to. A woman who gave up her life for me. Now let me do the same.”

I’m not sure if I should be angry or sad, but both overpower me. I’m mad that she would give up because she thinks she’s helping me–saving me.

“This is wrong,” I whisper on the verge of crying, tears pooling in my eyes, threatening to spill over and fall onto the bed.

“It’s my decision, Jade. I made it a long time ago because I wanted these years with you. I know it’s been worse the last couple of months, but I had extra time with you. Time I might not have gotten if I had the surgery.” She sighs. “I won’t leave you with a mound of bills from my surgery when you’re already killing yourself working. Not now, not ever. I know you think I’m giving up, but I’m not. You’ll see.” Her hand cups my cheek, holding me like I might break. “It will be okay,” she says reassuringly.

“No, it won’t,” I say, my voice raising an octave. “You’re dying. You’re killing yourself. Nothing is okay. This life…everything about it…is not okay.” I stand from the chair, shoving it behind me as I back away from her. “Do you want to know who I really am?”

“Jade, I know who you are.” She dismisses me with a wave of her hand.

I scoff. “You know who I was, but since this”–I wave my arms in the room indicating our surroundings–“happened, I’m someone else entirely. I’m bitter and full of loathing for the existence of everyone around me. I have an attitude that will eventually get me fired from both of my jobs, and I spend every minute I’m awake, not at home, worrying about if you’ve died alone at home because Dad is useless. When I see that you’re alive, I breathe a sigh of relief, but that relief only lasts for a minute before the worry kicks in all over again.”

My chest heaves as I pace in front of her bed, heat rising to my face.

“I’ve spent the last three years working my ass off for you–to take care of you, so how do you think it makes me feel when you won’t let me?”

I stop in front of her bed, staring down at the woman who would rather die than be my mom. “All of this has turned me into a cold and lonely person because I can’t stand to watch another person I might care for suffer the way I’ve watched you. I can’t do it. So I avoid everyone, and push them away.”

Tears stream down her face as she sniffs, wiping at her nose, so I close my eyes, needing to not see that I made her cry. I unloaded on her. Everything that I’ve held in for years, I threw at her, and why? For what? Did it make me feel better? No, I feel terrible because I’m the reason she’s upset. I did this. I shouldn’t have said anything. I should have kept my big, fat stupid mouth shut, but that’s what happens when you hold everything in for so long–it breaks like a dam, swallowing the people around you whole until there’s nothing left.

I open my eyes and see the grief scrawled across Mom’s face, painted clear as day. I move the chair back toward her bed and plop down. My head falls to her pillow, resting next to hers, as I cry for the first time since we got the news three years ago. I haven’t allowed myself to feel anything but anger since then because I knew if I felt anything else I would crumble to the ground and never get up again. I needed to be strong, so I turned to anger and lived by it.

So much good that’s done me.

Her hand softly lands on my head, and she strokes my hair, being the mom I haven’t had in a long time. “It’s going to be okay.”

I don’t bother saying anything, but this is one thing we’ll never agree on. I don’t want her to die, and she wants to die for me.

Life is cruel that way–never giving any of us exactly what we want.

I stand as far away from the crowd at the park as I can. I’m positive I look like a creeper, standing off to the side while a bunch of kids run around in front of me. I’m not a creeper. I was invited, but I’m not too sure what to do with myself.

Kids. They aren’t my thing.

Why I said yes when Hudson asked me to come to his son’s birthday, I have no earthly idea because frankly, it was a horrible decision.

Shifting on my feet with my arms crossed, I lean against the lone tree that’s providing me shade from the sun ten feet away from the party.

I watch as the kids play on the playground hopped up on sugar from the soda they’ve been drinking for the last hour. It’s the same park that’s in our neighborhood, yet it’s completely transformed for Chris’s birthday.

Everywhere I look are Star Wars decorations. A table off to the side is covered with a Star Wars tablecloth, along with plates and cups to match. The cake is pretty damn funny. It reads ‘The Force is Strong with Chris,’ and there’s a goofy picture of Chris grinning from ear to ear, showing off all his missing teeth. When I saw it, I had to slap my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

There’s even an R2D2 cut-out for all the kids to take pictures with, and poor Hudson is dressed as Darth Vader, scaring half the kids and eliciting the other half to attack him with their Lightsabers.

I might be awkward surrounded by kids, but I enjoy watching them have fun, being carefree, not knowing life is a million times more complicated than playing with your friends at a birthday party. I envy their innocence and bask in it while I can.

Hudson gathers all the kids back to the table and divvies out the cheese pizza that arrived five minutes ago. They shove the greasy goodness in their mouths, not able to scarf it down fast enough.

Hudson heads in my direction with one plate in each of his hands, and a smile that is so genuine it elicits one of my own.

“Hungry?” he asks, holding out a plate with a slice of pizza on it for me.

The steam wafts in my face, and my nose catches the scent of cheese and marinara sauce, causing my stomach to growl. “Yeah, thanks.” I take the plate from him and immediately bite into the pizza. I groan in satisfaction when the pizza hits my taste buds. I inhale it almost as fast as the kids do, but that might have something to do with me not having eaten all day.

“Sorry I hung you out to dry today,” he says with a tinge of guilt as he moves to stand under the shade. “I guess I didn’t bother to think of the fact that I would have my hands full and wouldn’t be able to talk to you much.”

“I can fend for myself.” I’ve done it longer than I care to admit. “I’m having fun.” I shrug my shoulders, actually meaning what I said–even if I am off in my own world.

“Don’t lie,” he says with a quirk of his lips.

“I’m not,” I argue. “It’s nice being here. It’s different for me. Something happy.” I shovel the last bite of the pizza in my mouth, not very ladylike, might I add. “Plus, the fact that I get to see you dressed as Darth Vader is pretty funny.” I chuckle.

He raises a brow. “Take it in while you can because this thing is going in the trash after today.”

“Is that considered a sin?” I tease. “I bet somewhere out there a guy just cursed your death.”

He smiles, shaking his head as he chews the last bite of his food.

The kids begin arguing over the last slice of pizza while another one decides to stick his finger in the uncut cake.

“Guys, knock it off,” Hudson hollers, but they ignore him. I laugh, unable to control it. Hudson playfully glares at me before saying, “Duty calls.” He runs off to man the chaos at the table, leaving me to watch the madness unfold.

Hudson gains control over the rowdy kids, coaxing them with cake if they settle down. I’m going to say that’s an oxymoron because giving kids cake will not settle them down in the least, momentarily sure, but not in the long run.

I shake my head watching them eat pure sugar in silence. When they’re finished, Chris opens his gifts oohing and ahhing over all of them.

“Which one is yours, sweetheart?” I turn my head to see a woman in her forties next to me, watching silently as laughter sounds from the table.

“None of them.”

“Oh?” she questions, concerned for the safety of the rambunctious boys.

“No, sorry, I was invited by the birthday boy’s dad,” I backtrack, trying to make myself seem like less of a weirdo.

“Is that so? He seems like a nice young man,” she says like she’s fishing for intel.

My eyes land on Hudson, carrying Chris over his shoulder. My shoulders shake from the chuckle vibrating through me. “Yeah, he’s great.”

“I’m Mary. It’s nice to meet you.” She unexpectedly hugs me from the side, causing my body to tense before I relax, returning her gesture.

“Jade,” I say, hoping my demeanor doesn’t come off as cold. “Which one is yours?”

“I have two. Right there.” She points across the park, indicating Hudson and Chris. I stare at her, perplexed. “Hudson’s my son and Chris, my grandson.”

Damnit. I wish I had known that. At least I can be thankful I didn’t say anything incriminating–or rude.

“I didn’t know,” I say apologetically, although I’m not sure why I’m sorry. I just feel like I should have known. I’d like to smack myself in the face right now.

“That’s quite all right. It’s nice to meet you. Hudson doesn’t have many friends. He takes on too much responsibility and doesn’t have enough fun of his own.” She sighs. “I’m taking Chris home with me when everyone leaves. Give Hudson a little break even though I had to beg him to let me take him for the night,” she says, shaking her head. “Do me a favor and make sure Hudson has fun tonight. Don’t take no for an answer.”

I nod my head because I feel like if I disagree with her I would get a lecture. She walks away, heading to the swarm of kids, trying to pull Hudson to the ground.

Mary sits next to Chris at the picnic table, and I find myself jealous that he has two people in his life to ensure his happiness.

It reminds me of how I felt on my tenth birthday.

The doorbell rings through the house, and I rush down the stairs, wanting to get to the door as fast as possible.

“Jade, be careful,” Mom says as I step off the last stair and slide across the wood floor in my socks.

I jerk open the front door and smile at my three friends–Julie, Kim, and Natalie.

“Happy Birthday,” they shout in unison.

“Thanks, come on.” I wave them in. “We have ice cream and pizza.”

Kim steps inside and says, “Mmm, can we have ice cream first?”

“It’s my birthday; we can do whatever we want,” I say, waving my hand in the air.

“You’re lucky. My mom would never let me have dessert first,” Julie pipes in.

We head to the kitchen where a line of ice cream toppings are spread across the kitchen counter.

“You only get to have ice cream first because it’s your birthday, Jade.” Mom laughs, shaking her head at me.

Mom scoops ice cream in four bowls and hands one to each of us. I pile my ice cream with every topping, including rainbow sprinkles and chocolate syrup topped off with caramel sauce.

“This was a terrible idea,” Mom says, her eyes wide as she takes in each of our bowls.

“Think of it as my birthday present.” I shrug, placing my bowl on the table.

“So I should take back the present I got you?”

“No!” I shout.

She smiles, the corner of her eyes wrinkling. All four of us eat our ice cream as I stare at the mountain of gifts sitting in the corner.

Mom nudges my arm. “Do you want to open your gifts?”

I nod my head, my brown hair landing in my ice cream. She pushes the hair behind my ear as she stands from her chair.

She picks up a maroon bag filled with white tissue paper. “This is from me and your dad.”

I scan the room, noting Dad isn’t around, but I don’t think about that fact for too long.

I push my half-empty bowl aside and brace myself on my knees in the chair.

I yank out the tissue paper, throwing it on the floor as I dig through the bag. I smile at my mom as I pull out three sketchpads and a small box of graphite pencils. At the bottom of the bag is a mountain of colored pencils, markers, and oil pastels.

I beam, holding the sketchbooks in my hands. “This is perfect.” I place the sketchbooks on the table, careful not to bend them and throw myself into her arms. “Thanks, Mom”

“You’re welcome, honey.” She rubs my back, squeezing me to her chest.

I unravel myself from her and catch Natalie thumbing through the pages of one of the sketchbooks. I snatch it away from her, not wanting her dirty fingerprints on my first drawing pad.

“You can look, but don’t touch,” I say, wiping off the imaginary dirt, wanting to treasure it for a lifetime.

The R2D2 cut out falls over from a gust of wind, and Mary walks over, picking it up and putting back in place.

To this day, I still have my first drawing pad. It’s falling apart, pages breaking away from the spiral binding and the hard cover bending at the edges. I keep it tucked away in my closet, not wanting to cause any more damage to it.

I push away from the tree and walk in the opposite direction of the party, slipping into my own world, away from the insanity. Sometimes a girl needs a break–from everything.

This is the most interaction I’ve had with people outside of a hospital, work, and my family in a long time. The smiling…the laughing…it’s great, but it’s also a lot. It’s a lot for me to act normal, to wear a smile on my face–a mask.

It’s weird that people often call the happy face they plaster on for the world a mask. They don’t want anyone to see their emotions reflected on the outside, so they pretend everything is fine–they pretend everything is perfect–even when it’s not

I don’t know how they do it because it’s exhausting. I’d much rather people see that I don’t want anything to do with them–that I’ve got enough shit to deal with besides worrying about what they think about me.

So instead of playing pretend, I sit by myself next to a chain link fence with my eyes closed, letting everything drift away. My thoughts. My surroundings. The noise. All of it–until there’s nothing.

Black. Empty. Silence.

Everything gone–wiped away, existing the best way I know how.

“Jade, everything okay?” Hudson’s voice jolts me back to the land of the living.

My eyes snap open, and I jerk my head back, my hair snagging on the fence. I untangle my hair from the fence and rub the back of my head.

“I didn’t mean to scare,” he says, kneeling across from me.

“It’s fine; I’m fine,” I croak, squeezing my eyes open and closed to bring everything back into focus.

“Everyone’s gone,” he says, studying me like I’m broken and lost. But I’m not. I’m just me–worn around the edges, frayed, and holding on.

“How long have I been over here?” I ask, standing from the ground and wiping any dirt off my butt.

He gets to his feet, keeping his eyes on me. “About forty minutes.”

I wince. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Kids are a lot when you aren’t used to them.” You can say that again. “I’ll walk you home.”

“Actually,” I say, stopping him before he can slip too far away, “your mom said I had to make sure you did something fun tonight.”

“Is that so?” He chuckles. “Don’t worry about it. I’m a big boy.”

“Please, I’m more scared of her than worried about you having fun. So what are we going to do?” It’s true. Don’t mess with a mom and her child because you won’t win.

“If it’s okay with you, we can head back to my place. I’m exhausted.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I agree, wanting nothing more than to sit on a couch for my last few hours of freedom before work starts all over again tomorrow.

“I already cleaned everything up, so let’s go.” He motions his head in the direction of his trailer.

“Did you burn your Darth Vader outfit already?” I tease.

“Ha.” He shakes his head. “Gave it to one of the kid’s parents. I thought I’d let someone else experience what I did today.”

I peer over at him. “And what was that?”

“Kids trying to kill me because they thought I was the bad guy.”

He isn’t the bad guy, not even close.

His skateboard rests under his arm, so I ask, “Do you ever use that thing, or do you just carry it around?”

He laughs, and I savor the sound, holding onto it like a prayer. “I don’t just carry it around, but I thought it would be rude if I skated ahead of you when it’s starting to get dark.”

“Who says I can’t keep up?” I jab at him.

“Are you insinuating you want to race?” he jokes.

“Yes,” I say, determined to prove him wrong. Tell any woman she can’t do something, and she will. Fact.

He places his skateboard down on the road and looks over at me with those damn smiling eyes, trying to distract me. “On the count of three, we go. The first one to the steps wins. Do you remember which one is mine?”

Gathering my long hair, I throw it in to a bun on top of my head. “Yes,” I say, getting in a running stance.

“One, two–” I run on two, leaving him behind, not caring I left before three. “Hey, cheater!” he yells from behind me.

“Slow poke!” I shout, zipping ahead closer to his trailer.

My breathing increases, making me pant like a wild dog–definitely not attractive. The wheels of his skateboard grind against the road, the noise getting closer and closer as I seem to be losing steam, exhaustion hitting me. I’m not cut out for exercise.

He easily speeds ahead of me, waving to me as he passes, and I scowl at him for having an unfair advantage because yeah, wheels are faster than legs, I’m just stubborn.

Thirty seconds later I reach the foot of his stairs. I bend over at the waist, heaving in as much air as I can, struggling to catch my breath.

“It’s about time you showed up. I was getting worried.”

I tilt my head up and give him the most menacing glare I can, which I can only imagine isn’t as scary as I think it is since he laughs. “At least you didn’t let me win because I’m a girl. I would have had to hurt you for that.”

“I would never.” He hops up the two steps, landing on the porch with a thud.

I move like a snail behind him, climbing the stairs like they’re Mount Everest.

“You should get out more.”

“I work too much for exercise,” I complain.

He opens the front door and steps inside, holding it open for my slow ass to crawl through. An eternity later–I’m exaggerating, it’s more like ten seconds– I walk through the door.

“I’m so glad you made it.” He jokes, holding his hand over his chest. “I was worried I was going to have to perform CPR on you.”

“Hardy-har-har.” I sit on a chair closest to the door, noting how low to the ground it is.

“If you break that, Chris will be mad at you.” He struts to the kitchen after he situates his skateboard in a corner, out of the way.

I study the chair, noticing it’s for a child, but I don’t care. I sit, proving to Hudson that I won’t break it.

“Water, okay?” he asks, his head hidden by his full-size refrigerator door.

“Yeah,” I respond.

I take in his home, perceiving how much bigger it is than mine. I’m a little jealous that he has a kitchen big enough for a normal size refrigerator and oven.

A few toys are shoved in the corner next to the television, and other than a pile of shoes next to the chair I’m perched in, it’s rather clean.

I stand from the tiny chair, stretching my cramped legs. I move over to the inviting couch and sink into the cushions, enjoying the softness that surrounds me. Cinnamon invades my senses, and I inhale, relishing in the spice that surrounds me. It smells like Hudson.

“Decided the chair wasn’t for you?” he asks, handing me a bottle of water.

“I’m like Goldilocks. It just wasn’t right, but this couch is perfect.”

He chuckles, plopping next to me and placing a bowl of popcorn between us. “What do you say we watch a movie?”

“Start her up.”

“Any preference?”

“Something mind-numbing.” I kick off my shoes and cross my legs, getting comfortable.

“That bad?”

“No,” I say flatly, not offering him anything. I’m not like everyone else who constantly needs to talk about feelings.

“I don’t believe you,” he counters, seeing through all my layers of bullshit.

I cross my arms at my chest. “Tough.”

“Tell me something,” he says, placing his hand on my arm, prompting every hair to stand on end, stirring electricity through every cell, making every one of them feel alive.

I clear my throat, ignoring all of my jittery feelings. “Like what?”

“Anything.”

“I love watching movies, but rarely have time to,” I say, not able to think of anything else. But it’s a simple fact, something anyone would say, and right now, that’s what a need–putting the heavy stuff on the backburner. But do you know what happens when you do that? The heavy gets burned–leaving it harder to deal with than if you had just dealt with it in the first place.

“How about we fix that?” He switches on the television and flips through the channels, searching for a movie. “Wanted is just starting.”

“Love that movie.”

He glances over at me with a soft smile and whispers, “Perfect.”

And it is perfect. Relaxed. Comfortable. It’s something to take my mind off everything because even when I draw, my mind reels a mile a minute, never shutting off or giving me a break as the pencil scratches the pristine white paper.

A loud movie with action and explosions allows me to get lost in someone else’s world without living in my own for two hours. Two hours of peace and tranquility. That might seem odd because movies are loud, but for me, the noise quiets the thoughts in my head.

I slant my eyes over at him as he shovels a handful of popcorn in his mouth. The side of my mouth slips in a half-smile as I watch most of the popcorn land on his shirt. “Where do your parents live?” I ask, wondering why he lives here if he could be staying with them in some place much nice than this.

His head whips over to me with a raised eyebrow. “Twenty minutes from here. Why?”

“Is it nicer than this?” After I say the words, I realize what a bitch I sound like. “I mean your place is great, but this neighborhood isn’t the best.” I cringe, hoping he doesn’t take offense.

“Ah,” he says in understanding. “It is nicer than this. Their house has four bedrooms and is in a middle-class neighborhood. It’s where I grew up.” He picks the popcorn off his shirt and pops it in his mouth. After he swallows he says, “I want to be on my own as much as I can. I want Chris to see that no matter what happens in his life he can get through anything on his own. Of course, I’ll always be there if he needs me, but what kind of example would I set for him if I free-loaded off my parents?”

I guess he’s right, and I kind of admire him for being out on his own. “What do you do for work?”

“I’m an electrician. Easy hours and pays enough for us to get by.”

“Do you ever miss it? Life? The things you never got to do because you had a kid.” I whisper the last part, knowing it might be frowned upon to think about the things you’ll never have because you have to care for a tiny human.

He looks back at the television, avoiding my gaze. “I do. What about you?”

“Every day,” I mumble, watching the features of his face relax with my admission.

We watch the rest of the movie in silence together, finding peace in the fact that we aren’t the only ones out there who regret so much about the way our lives have turned out.