Page 58 of Run Omega Run
“Your mom is awake,” Becky said, smiling. I inhaled, trying to stop the instant tears at that news. Her waking moments had become few and far between now.
Entering her bedroom, the pale sunlight filtered through the thin curtains, creating patterns of gold and shadow across the white floral bedding where she lay so still.
I settled into the familiar chair beside her bed, the one that had molded itself to my body over the weeks, and reached for her hand where it rested on the pale cream blanket. Her fingers were cool against my palm, the skin translucent enough that I could trace the delicate network of veins beneath.
"Hi, Mom," I whispered, lifting her hand to my cheek and breathing in the lavender scent that still clung to her skin despite the overlay of medication.
Her eyelids fluttered at the sound of my voice, and slowly, with effort that made my chest ache, she opened her eyes. They were still the same warm brown I remembered from childhood, though cloudier now, as if illness had placed a veil between her and the world she was gradually leaving behind.
"Heather," she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper but carrying more love than most people managed in entire conversations. "My sweet girl."
Her fingers squeezed mine with strength that surprised me, given how frail the rest of her body had become. That simple pressure sent warmth up my arm and straight to my heart, a reminder that despite everything the cancer had stolen, her love remained as fierce and unconditional as ever.
"How are you feeling?" I asked, though the question felt inadequate. How do you ask someone who's dying how they feel? How do you make conversation when every word might be your last?
"Better today," she said, and remarkably, it seemed true. Her breathing was easier than it had been in weeks, her color less gray, her eyes more alert and focused. "The pain medicine is working well, and the dreams have been so beautiful. Honey, I've been dreaming about when you were little."
I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes but blinked them back, determined not to waste what might be our final lucid conversation on my own grief. "Tell me about the dreams," I said, settling more comfortably in the chair and preparing to treasure whatever memories she wanted to share.
A smile ghosted across her lips, transforming her gaunt features into an echo of the vibrant woman who'd raised me. "Our walks in the park, do you remember?”
Of course I remembered. One particular memory hit me with shocking clarity—a blue picnic blanket, and pastries that looked too beautiful to eat.
"Every Sunday afternoon," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "Every week, you'd save up to buy pastries so we could eat them in the park."
"Freshly baked croissants," Mom continued, her eyes bright with the joy of shared memory, "still warm from the oven, with achocolate filling. You always wanted three of them, even though I kept suggesting that might make you feel sick."
I laughed despite the tears that were determined to fall. "Chocolate croissants were scrumptious! But three... I doubt I could manage a full one now!"
"You were a growing girl," she said firmly, her grip on my hand tightening with conviction that decades of hardship hadn't diminished. "Those were some of the happiest moments of my life, watching you discover that life wasn’t always hard; it could be sweet too."
The memory expanded in my mind, filling in details I'd forgotten. The way the afternoon light had slanted through the bakery’s windows, casting rainbow patterns through the glass cases, and the sound of other families laughing in the queue, it felt magical!
"I used to worry," she continued, her voice growing softer, more distant, "that I wasn't giving you enough. Other children had holidays abroad and trips with friends. All I could offer was one afternoon at a bakery and a mountain of love."
"Mom, no," I protested, bringing her hand to my lips and kissing her knuckles. "Those afternoons were perfect. They were enchanting. I looked forward to them every week, not because of the chocolate croissants, but because for those few hours, it felt like the whole world existed just for us."
Her eyes filled with tears that matched my own. "I'm so proud of the woman you've become," she whispered. "So proud of the way you've taken care of the children, the way you've built a family from love instead of blood. You've given them what I always tried to give you... the certainty that they matter, that they're wanted, that someone will fight for them no matter what."
The words hit me like physical blows, each one carrying a lifetime's worth of validation I hadn't realized I needed. Throughmonths of struggle and sacrifice, through moments when I'd questioned every decision, I'd carried the fear that I wasn't enough, that my love couldn't compensate for what I couldn't provide.
"I learned from the best," I said, my voice breaking on the words. "Everything I know about love, about family, about never giving up, I learned from watching you."
She was struggling now, the effort of sustained conversation taking its toll on reserves that had been depleted by months of fighting. But she dug down deep and found the strength for what she needed to say, her eyes boring into mine with an intensity that demanded my complete attention.
"The pack," she said, her voice gaining unexpected strength. "Don't be afraid of letting them love you, sweetheart. Don't let independence become isolation."
My cheeks burned with embarrassment and the vulnerability that came from being seen by someone who knew me better than I knew myself. "Mom, I—"
"You deserve to be cherished," she interrupted, her fingers finding surprising strength as they cupped my cheek. "You deserve partners who see your strength and want to support it, not control it. Promise me you won't push them away just because accepting help feels dangerous."
"I promise," I whispered, meaning it more than I'd meant anything in years.
She smiled then, an expression of pure contentment that took my breath away. "Good girl," she murmured, her eyelids growing heavy despite her obvious effort to stay present. "My good, brave girl."
Her breathing began to slow and deepen, the medication and exhaustion pulling her back toward sleep. I watched the tension leave her face as consciousness faded, leaving behind a peace I hadn't seen in months. Her hand grew slack in mine, but Imaintained the connection, unwilling to break any contact that might be our last.
Only when I was certain she was asleep, did I allow the composure I'd maintained for her sake to crumble. Tears I'd been holding back for weeks poured down my cheeks as I doubled over in the chair, my free hand pressed against my mouth to muffle the sobs that threatened to wake her.
