Page 3 of Her Last Confession

The speed with which her daughter disengaged stung, but Rachel tried not to show it. Besides, even in that disengagement, her heart was showing. She was, after all, insisting that her mother continue to connect with her once-sick friend. She remembered being twelve, how the world seemed to exist primarily in the space between friends and jokes. Still, she missed the little girl who used to beg for "just one more" board game or bedtime story, the little girl who didn't have a phone permanently attached to her hand.

Rachel stood, gathering her keys and bag. She crossed to the living room and approached the couch, where she leaned down to kiss Jack's cheek. "Scarlett asked me to come over," she said. "I won't be long, though. Just long enough to see the place, say hi…just be polite, you know?"

He mumbled something that might have been "bye" without looking up from his laptop. Two years into their marriage, and sometimes she still felt like she was competing with his inbox for attention.

At the door, Rachel paused. Through the archway, she could see her family—Jack lost in his work, Paige absorbed in her phone, the abandoned Monopoly board between them. A familiar ache bloomed in her chest. This wasn't how she'd imagined their Saturday morning ending. And she was becoming more and more aware that there would be precious few of this sort of Saturday mornings in her future. Paige was going to grow out of it before she knew it.

But then she remembered the dark days of her own cancer battle, when she'd thought she'd never see another family moment, perfect or imperfect. The memory of hospital rooms, of researching treatments and specialists—it all rushed back in a wave that made her grip the doorknob tighter.

She had this. She had them. However distracted or distant they might sometimes be, they were here. And after everything they'd been through, that was no small thing.

The morning sun caught the silver band on her left hand as she reached for her car keys. Her wedding ring to Jack—different from the one Peter had given her, but no less meaningful. A symbol of second chances, of life continuing even after you think it's over.

Rachel stepped out into the crisp morning air, letting the door click shut behind her. She had a miracle to celebrate with Scarlett, and maybe later, if she was lucky, there'd be time to finish that game of Monopoly. Though something told her that by the time she got home, the board would be packed away, the moment lost to the steady march of weekend routines and digital distractions.

Still, she'd keep trying. Keep showing up. Keep believing in the power of small moments and second chances. After all, she was living proof that sometimes the things you think you've lost can find their way back to you—different, perhaps, but no less precious for the change.

CHAPTER TWO

Rachel pulled up to Scarlett's modest ranch house just as the digital clock on her car dashboard crept past noon: 12:01. The neighborhood wasn't exactly pristine—just a few blocks separated it from what most locals considered the rough part of Richmond’s downtown area—but the small front yard was well-kept, with fresh mulch around a young maple tree. The tree's leaves had just started to fall away to the ground, the stripped branches looking frail against the autumn sky.

She killed the engine and sat for a moment, gathering her thoughts. These visits were never easy, even now that she was on the other side of her own battle. Sometimes,especiallynow that she was on the other side. The weight of survival carried its own kind of burden, one she was still learning to shoulder even after all this time. Oddly enough, it was hard to make the transition fromoh shit, I’m going to dieto a sense that a gulf of years was suddenly stretched out ahead of you.

She made her way up the steps to the small porch. The screen door creaked opened before Rachel could even knock. Scarlett stood in the doorway, wearing loose-fitting clothes that hung on her still-recovering frame. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, but she managed a wan smile. Her hair was growing back, a soft fuzz that caught the dim light from inside. Just a bit over fifty, the poor dear looked closer to sixty. But Rachel knew that would all change in the next few months.

"I was watching for you through the window," Scarlett said, stepping aside. "Come in. I've been counting the minutes, if I'm honest. These days get long."

The living room was dim and stuffy, heavy curtains drawn against the midday sun. A news anchor mouthed silent headlines on the TV mounted to the wall, set to mute. Rachelnoticed a thin layer of dust on the coffee table, something the Scarlett she'd known in hospice would never have tolerated. A half-drunk cup of tea sat on a coaster, long gone cold.

"How are you enjoying being back home?" Rachel asked, lowering herself onto the couch. The cushions still held the impression of someone who'd been sitting there for hours. An afghan was bunched at one end, suggesting Scarlett spent more time here than in her bedroom.

Scarlett's laugh was hollow. "That's the question, isn't it?" She wrapped her arms around herself, perching on the edge of an armchair. "I should be grateful. I am grateful. But..." She trailed off, her gaze drifting to the silent TV screen.

"But you're having trouble adjusting to being alive?" Rachel finished softly, recognizing the lost look in Scarlett's eyes. She'd seen it in her own mirror more times than she cared to count. “Or maybe not tobeing alivebut to knowing death is now in the rearview?”

"God, that sounds terrible when you say it out loud." Scarlett's voice cracked. "I had accepted it, you know? I'd made peace with dying. I'd said my goodbyes, made my arrangements, started wondering if you just all of a suddenknowhow to play the harp when you get your little cloud, you know?" She twisted her hands in her lap. "And now..." She gestured vaguely at the room around her. "Now I have to figure out how to live again, and I'm not sure I remember how. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and forget that I'm not dying anymore. It takes me minutes to remember that I have a future to plan for."

Rachel leaned forward, her heart aching with recognition. "I understand more than you might think." The memories rose unbidden—the sterile hospital rooms, the pitying looks, the way her daughter's face had crumpled every time she'd had to leave the hospital without her mother.

"Do you?" There was no challenge in Scarlett's voice, only desperate hope. Her fingers clutched at the arms of her chair, knuckles white. “If I recall parts of your story, you were also working while fighting your cancer.”

“I did for a while. But near the end of it, when it got really bad…there were two times when I thought it was over." Rachel's hand unconsciously went to her temple, where the tumor had once pressed against her skull. "The second time was the worst. I'd fought so hard, for so long, and I was tired. There was a moment—just a moment—when I wanted to stop fighting. When the pain and the fear and the exhaustion seemed like too much to bear."

"What changed?" Scarlett asked. “What helped you beat it?”

"Paige." Rachel's voice softened, and she blinked against sudden moisture in her eyes. "My daughter. I thought about her face, about all the moments I'd miss. Her graduation. Her wedding. The way she would still crawl into my bed sometimes when there was a thunderstorm, even though she was far too old for that." She took a steadying breath. "It wasn't easy, but I pulled myself out of that hole. One day at a time. Sometimes one hour at a time."

Scarlett was quiet for a long moment, absorbing this. The silence was broken only by the soft tick of a clock on the mantel. "I've been trying to find... purpose, I guess. Something to focus on besides just existing. The doctors keep telling me to take it slow, butslowfeels too much like waiting to die. Again."

"Oh?" Rachel straightened, encouraged by this hint of forward momentum. "And have you found anything yet?"

A hint of genuine animation crossed Scarlett's face, bringing color to her pale cheeks. "I started growing roses. Would you like to see them?" There was an eagerness in her voice that hadn't been there before, a spark of the woman Rachel had known in hospice—the one who'd organized game nights for her fellowpatients even when she could barely sit up. “I mean, I just but the bulbs in the ground and this is a dumb time of year to start planting them, but they’re there…and they should be ready for spring.”

"I'd love to."

Scarlett got to het feet, and Rachel followed her through the house to the back door, noting with professional satisfaction how much steadier her gait was compared to their last meeting in hospice. The improvement was remarkable—just a few weeks ago, Scarlett had needed assistance just to sit up in bed. Now, she moved with only the slightest hesitation, her steps growing more confident as they approached the back door.

The backyard was small but well-tended, with a neat flowerbed running along the fence. At the far end, several rose bushes had been recently planted, their stems still thin and tentative. The soil around them was freshly turned, and Rachel could see gardening tools laid out with careful precision on a nearby bench.

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