Page 55 of Second Draft

I’m not sure how my feet keep moving, but they do.

It’s been seven years since I’ve seen my parents. No calls. No letters. Even after they knew where I was, they never tried to contact me.

And I’m not sure how they’re going to respond seeing me now. That’s if my mom is even conscious enough to know who I am. From the way Kira made it sound, she doesn’t have long.

As frightened as I am, I’m glad that Carter convinced me to come. I’ve never stopped missing my mom. And he’s right, I’d be devastated if I never got the chance to say goodbye.

But then, what if they don’t want me here? My Dad is a big man. Not as big as Carter, but he carries himself with all the self-righteousness and arrogance of a man who puts himself far above others.

I doubt that’s changed. And if it hasn’t, who knows what kind of scene he’ll make. What he’ll say.

“I shouldn’t be here.” I stop outside the room the nurse said was my mom’s, coldness seeping through my veins.

“I’ll be right by your side.” His hand takes mine and he gives a small reassuring squeeze.

With a heavy breath, I push open the door.

It’s a single room, one bed, and at first I think the nurse must have given us the wrong room, because I barely recognize the woman in the bed.

Her hair, once a light ashy brown, is now almost pure silver. And there are deep lines in her face that weren’t there before. Tubes and wires are everywhere. In her nose, her throat, her arm. But what really distorts her features is that one side of her face looks off, almost slack, giving her an asymmetrical appearance.

This isn’t my mom. It can’t be.

A shiver races down my spine as I stare at her, unable to move forward.

The woman I knew was strong. Stern. Unbending. But the one in the bed is weak, fragile, a shadow of who she once was.

I swallow hard, wanting to turn and run out of the room. But Carter is behind me, his hand pressed on my back, giving me the strength to move forward.

“Mom?” Blinking back tears, I take a few steps and stand beside the bed. Taking her frail hand in mine, I say, “Mom. It’s me. Layla.”

Her skin is so pale it’s almost transparent, her veins blue and exposed.

I can’t help the tears that start to roll down my cheeks. Seven years of built-up regret, anger and grief, rushes through me in a tidal wave of emotions.

“I’m so sorry,” the words come out in a sob.

Her eyes, or rather eye, because the other one doesn’t seem to be working properly, flutters open.

There’s recognition there. I see it in her expression. And she squeezes my hand, so faint it’s barely noticeable. But I notice and gives me a small sliver of hope.

“Hi, Mom,” I croak out, my voice shaky.

Through the tubes in her throat, she tries to say something.

“Don’t try to speak.” I kiss her forehead, still holding her hand and choke back a sob. “I’ve missed you so much. I’m so sorry. For everything.”

A single tear slides down her cheek, and I wipe it away for her.

“I love you.”

She blinks three times. I don’t know if it’s meant to mean anything, but I take it as her saying those words back to me. Words that she barely ever said when I was younger.

It was good to come. My chest swells, because I don’t see any of the anger or animosity that had been in her eyes the last time we’d been together. All I see is love reflected there.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come to visit sooner–”

“What is this?” A deep, baritone laced with loathing, rumbles through the small room.

---