Page 31 of Never Distract a Biker

I can't tear my eyes away from Mom's face, pleading silently for any sign of life. But her features remain serene, untouched by the chaos around her. It's a battle between life and death, and I'm forced to watch from the sidelines, powerless.

Time slips away, each second an eternity until the doctor arrives, his presence filling the room with a new weight. He moveswith quiet efficiency, listening for a heartbeat that doesn't come, checking for warmth where there is none.

"Scarlett," he says gently, turning to me. His eyes hold a sorrow that speaks to my own, the kind that comes from delivering news no one wants to hear. "I'm sorry. We did everything we could, but your mother ... she's gone."

“Call the time of death.” A nurse urges.

“1:56 am”

His words land like a blow, knocking the breath from me. ‘Time of death.’ The phrase hangs in the air, a sentence that seals my new reality. Mom is gone, and the void she leaves is vast and echoing. My knees turn to jelly, and I grab onto the edge of the bed to keep myself from crumbling to the ground.

"Thank you," I manage to say, though the words taste like ash. "For trying."

The doctor nods, a silent acknowledgment of the loss I feel. And then, with nothing more to be done, the world moves on, leaving me anchored and alone in this moment of despair.

I collapse into the stiff chair beside the hospital bed, the sterile scent of antiseptic failing to mask the stench of death from my mind. My body trembles, refusing to accept what my mind already knows. The void where her laughter once lived is a silent scream in my heart.

"Mom," I whisper, voice cracking. I reach for her hand, still expecting the warmth that has always greeted me. But her skin is cold, lifeless. "You fought so hard." Tears blur my vision as I swallow the lump in my throat.

I clasp her hand between mine, the reality of her absence seeping into my bones. "Thank you," I murmur, pressing my lips against her knuckles, "for everything." The words are just a breath, a futile attempt to convey a lifetime of gratitude.

Inside, something shifts—my mind dashing to my unborn child. A fierce protectiveness wraps around me. This baby, my secret, is now my anchor. Mom knew. She held on long enough to know I wouldn't be alone.

"Your grandchild will know you," I promise her, even though she can no longer hear me. "They'll know your strength, your love."

The grief is a crushing wave, and I'm adrift in its wake. But I cling to the life inside me—my only hope through the tempest.

Tears slip hot and fast down my cheeks, my breath hitching in a rhythm of sorrow. I curl my hand around my belly, a shield against the emptiness that threatens to swallow me whole. The truth settles heavy in my heart—Mom let go because she knew.She knew her grandchild was coming, a new life that would now journey with me even as hers slipped away.

"Mom," I choke out between sobs, "you didn't have to hold on for me." But gratitude mingles with the pain, bitter and sweet, knowing she is now at peace. Free from pain and medication.

A week slips by—a blur of condolences and arrangements that taste like ash in my mouth.

Gravel crunches under my heels as I walk away from the freshly turned earth, the final resting place of my mother. The chill of the early morning seeps into my bones, but it's nothing compared to the cold void left in her wake. I stand there, a solitary figure dressed in black against a backdrop of somber, gray tombstones, clutching the program from the funeral service like a lifeline.

"Goodbye, Mama," I whisper, the words barely audible over the rustling leaves. My voice is steady, but inside I'm shattering piece by piece. She's gone—gone—and the truth of it settles heavily on my chest.

It's been a week—one long, dragging week of condolences, arrangements, and hollow sympathies. This morning, under thegray unhappy sky, they lowered her casket into the ground, and with each thud of dirt hitting the lid, a part of me was buried too.

I turn away, the knot in my throat tightening with each step. There's an ache inside, a pain so acute it feels like it will never fade. Mom was my rock, my safe harbor, and now I'm adrift, caught in a storm with no end.

I step into the taxi waiting for me and begin to respond to my messages. Only three people sent their condolences: two from my distant cousins and one from Marina. I sent a polite response to my cousins and proceeded to berate Marina. I had expected her to be by me as my only friend and not send me a message.

Me: Bitch! I can’t believe you are not here.

Marina: Sorry, Bunny, but I have something I am dealing with ??

Me: Something more important than consoling your grieving friend?

Marina: I promise to make it up to you ??

Me: How are you going to do that? I’m not going to bury my mother again.

Marina: Please, I'm truly sorry. I’ve got to go now, but I promise to make it up to you.

With that message, I sigh and lean back in my seat. The truth is, I am not angry or disappointed at Marina. I won’t be surprised if she is somewhere in Antarctica sunbathing with the penguins. That is the lifestyle she has chosen, and she is living it to the fullest.

My apartment building looms ahead, but the familiar bricks offer no comfort. As I draw closer, a sense of unease threads through my exhaustion. Why do I feel like something's wrong? It's probably just the emptiness waiting for me inside—a stark reminder of my new reality.

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