I was seventeen. She’d been in remission for six months, and we actually believed she’d beaten it. The cancer was gone. The doctors were optimistic. We had our lives back.
She went overboard that year. Decorations in every room. Cookies baking constantly. Christmas music playing from morning until night. Like she was making up for the Christmas before, when she’d been too sick to leave the hospital.
I helped her string lights around the living room windows of our small apartment. She stood on a step stool while I handed her the strands, and she hummed along to Bing Crosby crooning about white Christmases.
“This is perfect,” she said, stepping back to admire our work. “This is exactly what Christmas should feel like.”
“It’s just lights, Mom.”
“It’s not just lights.” She pulled me into a hug. “It’s hope. It’s joy. It’s believing that good things can happen even when everything’s been terrible.”
We spent Christmas Eve baking her famous sugar cookies, the recipe her grandmother taught her. She let me cut out the shapes while she mixed frosting in bowls, adding food coloring until we had every color imaginable.
“When you have kids someday,” she said, piping green frosting onto a tree-shaped cookie, “you’ll make these with them. And you’ll tell them about your grandmother who made the best cookies in Chicago.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” I told her. “You’ll make them with your grandkids yourself.”
She smiled, but something in her eyes was sad. “Maybe. But just in case, pay attention to how I do this. The trick is getting the consistency right. Too thick and it won’t spread. Too thin and it runs everywhere.”
I paid attention. Watched her hands move with practiced ease. Memorized every step.
Three months later, the cancer came back. Six months after that, she was gone.
I never made those cookies again.
Standing in the Hale estate kitchen on Christmas Day, watching Mrs. Borris pull sugar cookies from the oven, the memory hits me so hard I have to grip the counter to stay upright.
“You alright, dear?” Mrs. Borris asks.
“Fine. Just remembered something.” I force a smile. “They smell amazing.”
“Old family recipe.” She sets the tray down to cool. “Been making these for the Hales since the boys were small.”
I watch her work and think about Mom. About that last Christmas when we believed everything would be okay. About how quickly hope can turn into grief.
I’m pregnant with a baby for men I was supposed to destroy. Men who are planning nurseries and discussing parenting strategies like we’re a real family.
But we’re not a real family because they don’t know the truth about me. And I can’t bring a child into this lie.
The thought has been growing for days, settling into certainty that makes me sick. I can’t have this baby. Can’t bind myself permanently to people I deceived. Can’t raise a child built on the foundation of betrayal.
I need to end this before it goes any further.
“I should get back to work,” I tell Mrs. Borris. “Thank you for letting me help.”
“Anytime, dear. You’re always welcome in my kitchen.”
I leave before the tears can start and head toward the medical wing.
The pharmacy is empty like it was before. I move quickly, finding the section with medications I shouldn’t be looking for. Mifepristone. Misoprostol. The two-pill regimen for early pregnancy termination.
My hands shake as I read the labels. Instructions. Dosage. Side effects.
This is insane. I’m stealing abortion medication from the estate pharmacy like some kind of criminal.
But what choice do I have?
I can’t tell them the truth. Can’t admit I came here to destroy them. Can’t watch their faces when they realize everything between us has been built on lies. Better to end the pregnancy quietly. Tell them I miscarried. Let them comfort me while I grieve something I chose to terminate.
