Page 28 of Silver Fox's Secret Triplets
I couldn't lie to her, not when she was looking at me with such gentle understanding. "Yes."
"And you're scared."
"Terrified," I whispered.
"Of him? Or of yourself?"
The question resonated inside me, making me think for a moment before answering. "Both. All of it. I can't afford to make the same mistakes again."
"Who says it would be a mistake?" Her thumb traced across my knuckles. "Sometimes the things we're most afraid of are the ones worth fighting for."
"But what if it falls apart? What if he leaves? What if Dad finds out and?—"
"Ivy." Her voice was firm but kind. "You can't live your life in what-ifs. Trust me, I know. When I was first diagnosed, all I could think about were the what-ifs. What if the treatment doesn't work? What if I don't see grandchildren? What if your father has to face the rest of his life alone?" She squeezed my hand. "But you know what I realized? The what-ifs were stealing the time I had right now. The moments that mattered."
Tears pricked at my eyes. "I don't want to hurt anyone."
"The only way you'll hurt people is by hiding behind your fear. By choosing shame over honesty." She leaned forward, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Follow your heart, sweetheart. Even if it's messy. Even if it's complicated. You deserve to be happy."
A coughing fit seized her then, harsh and rattling. I helped her sit up straighter, rubbing circles on her back until it passed. The sound was worse tonight, more violent than usual. When she finally caught her breath, I could see the exhaustion etched in every line of her face.
"Here, let me get you some water." I reached for the glass on her nightstand, helping her take small sips. Her hands shook slightly as she gripped the glass, and I had to resist the urge to hold it for her entirely. Mom had always been fiercely independent, and even now, weakened by treatment, she insisted on maintaining whatever autonomy she could.
"Thank you, sweetheart." Her voice was hoarse, but she managed a weak smile. "I hate that you have to see me like this."
"Don't." I smoothed her hair back from her forehead. "You're still the strongest person I know. Being sick doesn't change that."
"I don't feel strong," she whispered. "I feel like I'm disappearing a little more each day."
The admission broke my heart. "You're not disappearing. You're fighting. And we're all fighting with you."
"You should rest," I said, tucking the blankets around her.
"Stay until I fall asleep?"
I nodded, settling back against the headboard. Within minutes, her breathing had deepened and evened out. I watched the rise and fall of her chest, my heart heavy with love and fear in equal measure. She was the strongest person I knew, but cancer was a thief that respected no one's strength.
When I finally slipped from the room, I found Dad waiting in the hallway. He stood with his back against the wall, arms crossed, his face etched with fatigue and something darker. The sight of him there, looking so lost and vulnerable, made my heart ache. This was the man who had always seemed invincible to me, who had built an empire from nothing and commanded respect in every room he entered. Now he looked like a frightened child, overwhelmed by circumstances beyond his control.
"How is she?" His voice was rough, as if he'd been holding back tears for hours.
"Sleeping now. The coughing seemed to ease up after she had some water."
He nodded but didn't move. In the dim light, he looked older than his years, worn down by weeks of hospital visits and sleepless nights. I could see the toll this was taking on him—the way his shoulders sagged, the deep lines around his eyes that hadn't been there six months ago.
"Dad, you should get some rest too. You won't be any good to her if you collapse from exhaustion."
"Rest." He laughed bitterly. "How am I supposed to rest when every time I close my eyes, I see her getting worse? When I wake up in a panic, checking to make sure she's still breathing?"
"Dad…" I sighed and let my shoulders drop. That fear was too real for me to know how to answer it.
"Hard to rest when my daughter keeps lying to me." The words came out sharp, defensive. "All these secrets you're keeping, Ivy. Do you think I'm blind?"
I could have gotten defensive, could have deflected or made excuses. Instead, I stepped closer and wrapped my arms around him. He stiffened at first, then collapsed against me, his shoulders shaking.
"I'm so scared," he whispered into my hair. "I can't lose her, Ivy. All I ever wanted was to grow old with that woman. To sit on the porch when we're eighty and watch our grandchildren play in the yard."
My throat tightened. "You're not going to lose her. Mom's a fighter."
