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I held her hand as Dr. Parangi explained in a soft yet authoritative voice how she believed it best we turn to hospice care. She used words like maximizing comfort, quality of life, and managing pain in a tone that made it seem like it’s the best course. As opposed to more clinical trials or yet another round of chemo.

But that would mean we would stop fighting. Stop fighting what is naturally happening to my mother’s body.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t rock or play with my hair or bite my finger. I didn’t let any emotion out at the appointment or after when we came home, and Mom sat on the couch to pray the rosary. I didn’t flinch when Noah came home from school and lay down with his head in her lap, telling her about his day. I ordered pizza for dinner and forced myself to choke down a slice, watching as my mother picked at her piece, knowing that when the doctor said she couldn’t tell us how long we had exactly, it would probably be a few months.

A few months left with my mother, that’s all I have.

All Noah has.

So I rub and rub and rub at the rose petal until I tear it, and then I rub until it becomes a tiny ball of silk.

“I was thinking I’ll sleep down here tonight,” Mom says, coming to sit at the dining room table next to me. Ever since Austin came over a few weeks ago, I’ve kept it clean. We’ve actually been using it to dine on instead of it being the catchall for bills, homework, and baseball mitts.

I turn my attention to my mother. “You sure?”

She nods, her eyes sunken in, clearly exhausted. Sometimes when she’s too tired, she’ll sleep on the recliner in the living room. We don’t have a toilet on this floor so she still needs to go upstairs to use the bathroom, but I put a few toiletries in a small bag under the kitchen cabinet for her on nights like this. When she would rather not drag herself upstairs.

“I know you’re upset,” she says eventually, and my nose burns. “I’m upset too.”

“It’s not fair,” I croak.

“Nothing in life is fair, but we have to trust in the Lord and⁠—”

“Fuck the Lord!” I shove back from the table. “Fuck your prayers and your religion. What has it ever done for you?”

Mom blinks a few times, surprised at my outburst. I’m surprised too, but it’s out there now, and I can’t take it back.

“It gives me strength. And hope.”

I wipe at my dampening eyes. “For what?” I wave my arms around, encompassing everything we’ve been through the last few years. “What hope could you possibly have? What hope could I possibly have?”

Mom focuses on the picture of her and Dad on the wall, and my shoulders sink. She is the one with this disease that’s slowly killing her. She is the one in pain and staring down the clock that’s swiftly running out. She’s the one who should be screaming and crying.

Not me. I shouldn’t have yelled at her and condescended about her faith.

But of course my mother is understanding, and when she turns her face to me again, she holds out her hand to me. I take it and sit back down. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.” She lifts her other hand to smooth it over my hair and face. “I’m not looking forward to leaving you, but I pray because it gives me strength to get up every day. To appreciate and be happy for what I do have. For however long I have left.”

She smiles, placing her fingertips on my quivering chin. “I have hope for myself that I will live on after this physical life. That I’ll see your dad again. That I’ll be happy and healthy and whole and be able to watch over you and Noah.”

I sniffle, trying to swallow past the rock lodged in my throat.

“You’re strong and smart and so sweet, my girl. You will be okay after I’m gone, but I hope on days that are hard, you find comfort. I hope you remember to stay true to who you are. I hope you remember that you are the best thing to ever happen to me.”

I crumple and sink into her arms. She hugs me as close as she can, kissing my head and murmuring about how much she loves me. But all I can think is that this might be the last time my mom ever holds me like this.

How will I know when the last time is?

I guess the only thing to do is assume it will be.

When my eyes are dry, and I feel like I can sit on my own again, I pull back from her arms. Her own eyes are red and watery, but she smiles. Like always. “I’ll be around for a little while yet. To see Noah play more baseball and maybe see you settled down.”

“If you mean get married, I don’t think that’ll happen anytime soon.”

She shrugs. “You know your father and I married after only a few months. It could happen for you too.”

“And I could become an astronaut or Miss America.”