Page 153 of How You See Me
She lets out an audible exhale. “He’s still our father.”
I puff out my disagreement. It takes more than blood to earn that title. After what he did, leaving Mom to fendfor herself, I can’t trust anything he says or does now. Forgiveness, if that’s what he’s after, has always been a bridge too far.
I’m gearing up to say as much when the hospital sign comes into view and all that rigid anger dissolves into dread.
After a week of wishing for this day, it’s finally here.
I’m not prepared.
Raidyn parks the car and cuts the engine. For a beat, her focus stays forward, unmoving.
“We’re so glad you’re here, Hayes,” she begins, resting a hand on my arm. “We all need you, love you. But I know you, and I swear to God . . . don’t do it.”
New steel bars shoot up around me, shielding me from whatever she’s demanding of me. “Don’t do what?”
“Brave your storm alone.” She claims my hand and squeezes. “You always soak up everyone else’s troubles, emotions, and needs, neglecting your own. You don’t have to be perfect, just present. No matter what you do, you’ll always be our hero. But even heroes need help sometimes.”
“Thanks. I’ve learned that recently.”
“Good. Maybe Ava’s list did its job.”
“What?”
“Come on.” Pulling her hand free, she pats my leg. “Our little sister needs her hero . . . and so does Mom.”
“No pressure.”
“None at all but stop stalling.” She throws open the door and steps out, leaving me alone in the car.
I’m excited to see Ava, but damn, what if I can’t make her feel better? What if she senses how terrified I am? What if—
Raidyn pounds on the hood and tilts her head. “What are you doing? Trying to teleport inside?”
Letting out my frustration, I push open the door with more force than necessary, catching it before it slams into the car beside us.
“I wish. Then I could teleport myself away from this ridicule.”
“It’s too bad your superpowers can’t make that happen.” She hooks her arm around mine, directing me toward the entrance. “As you know, big brother, sarcasm ismysuperpower, and I’m just getting started.”
???
Walking through the hospital, all joking dies a miserable death. A sterile sadness clings to the walls in here, so thick it seeps into my lungs, making every breath feel like swallowing dust. Each step becomes slower than the last.
We don’t talk. There’s nothing to say that wouldn’t sound insignificant compared to what’s waiting for us behind the pediatric oncology ward door.
Separating at the restrooms, we wash our hands and put on masks. The quiet here isn’t peaceful—it’s haunted.
I stall outside her door to steady myself. A few seconds to breathe before facing her, but Raidyn doesn’t allow it. She nudges the door open with her elbow, hinges whining like it’s saddened by what’s behind it.
I don’t know what I expected before walking in here, but it sure as hell wasn’t what I see.
Mom sits slumped forward in a chair beside the bed, elbows on her knees and fingers laced tight in either prayer or surrender. Her hair’s pulled back in a messy knot, mask strings digging into her cheek. Everything about her is muted, exhausted, anxious. Her head lifts when we walk in, but she says nothing. Just watches us like she’s been waiting for this moment to exhale.
Beside her, tucked under a fuzzy pink blanket, Ava rests with wires and tubes connecting her to multiple machines. The bed swallows her, like it was made for someone twice her size. She’s wearing a plaid cap that folds over her ears, skin pale and tight. But when her dull blue eyes find me, they come alive.
“Sprinkles,” she squeaks, and her teary smile slices me in half. “You’re here.”
Crossing the room fast, I snag the rolling stool on the way and sit beside her. “Where else would I be?”
