Hilda softens. Without a word, she pulls me into another hug, squeezing tight, like she knows I need it. I cling to her warmth for just a second longer before pulling away.
I don’t know what I’m walking into at that hospital, but I know one thing—whatever my mom has to tell me, I’m not ready for it.
The moment I step through the hospital doors, my stomach lurches. The air feels thick, suffocating, pressing in on me from all sides. Memories slam into me. The last time I was here was when my dad died. When a stroke stole him from me. When my world shattered in an instant.
The walls close in. The sharp sting of disinfectant mixes with something metallic—blood, I realize. The scent clings to the back of my throat, making my stomach churn. The beeping monitors, the harsh fluorescent lights, the muffled voices of nurses—it all crashes over me like a tidal wave.
Cold sweat trickles down my back. My vision tunnels. I bend over, hands gripping my knees, forcing in shaky breaths. Please don’t throw up. Please don’t throw up. I whisper the words over and over, a desperate prayer to my body to keep it together. Minutes pass before I can stand straight again, before I can force my feet to move toward the front desk.
“Umm…Hi, I’m here to see my mom.” My voice comes out uneven, my nerves pressing at the edges.
“Mari?? Oh, sweet girl! It’s good to see you!”
I blink, my focus shifting to the woman behind the desk. Maria. One of my mom’s friends.
“Hi, Maria. It’s good to see you too.” I roll my lip between my teeth. “How’s my mom? Is she okay?”
Maria’s smile falters. Her lips press into a thin line. My stomach drops.
“She’s in room 204, sweetheart. Get on over to her. She’ll be so happy to see you.”
I walk into my mom's hospital room. It’s small, simple. A single bed sits in the center, its rails raised on either side. She’s asleep. I rushed over, grabbing her hand. It’s cold and clammy.
“Mami? I’m here.”
Slowly, her eyes flutter open. “Mija? Oh, Mariana. I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Of course, I’m here, Mami. I came as soon as Tía Hilda called. I was scared out of my mind.”
“I’m sorry I scared you, Mija.” She gently squeezes my hand.
“No, Mami, don’t be sorry! Just, please, tell me what’s going on. I’m losing it over here.”
She tries to sit up but is too weak, so she lays back down.
“Mari…” She takes a slow breath. “I love you so much, Mija. You’re a good girl. A good daughter. Papi and I have always been so proud of you.”
“I love you too, Mami, But you’re scaring me. Please. What’s going on?”
She exhales, her face lined with exhaustion. “For the past year, I’ve been feeling sick. Bloating, stomach pains, so tired all the time. I figured it was just age. My diet. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”
“Okay…?”
“One day, I felt awful, and Hilda convinced me to see a doctor. I went to see a gastroenterologist, but they couldn’t figure it out. I saw specialist after specialist, until, finally, a gynecologist ran more tests—pelvic exams, ultrasounds, bloodwork, and then a biopsy. She stops.
I grip her hand tighter. “And what did they say, Mami? Why are you sick?”
We’re both crying when she finally says it.
“Mija, I have stage 4 ovarian cancer.”
At that moment, my world caves in. The air is sucked from my lungs. Her words don’t make sense—they can’t be real. Cancer? No. No. No.
My hands shake as I grip the side of her bed, as if holding onto it will stop everything from spinning. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Why am I finding out like this? I could have been there for you! You know I would’ve dropped everything to be with you.”
She strokes my cheek, her own tears spilling over. “And that’s exactly why, Mija. You lost Andrew. You’re mourning. I wanted you to take care of yourself. I didn’t want you to worry about me too.”
“You’re my mom. Of course, I’m going to worry about you.” My voice cracks. “How could you keep this from me? I deserved to know. I deserved every second with you, and you stole time from me.”
