“Are you serious?” she spat. “That’syour advice? Just ruin everything else? We’re trying to save her life, and you’re telling us to tank our future?” Isabel’s voice was rising. “Because that makesso much sense.”
Dr. Rojas was probably used to people losing their shit in his office. “I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear,” he said evenly.
“No kidding.”
“Can we just focus for a second?” I turned back to the doctor. “If wedopull the money together—if we find a way—is the surgery worth it?”
He studied me for a moment before leaning forward. “It’s not a guarantee,” he admitted.
I hated that phrase.Not a guarantee.It meant“maybe.” It meant“We don’t actually know, but we’ll take your money anyway.”
“But given her condition,” he continued, “it’s one of the strongest options we have. Without it ...” He trailed off, but I heard the rest of the sentence loud and clear.
Without it, Mama died.
“Okay.”
That was the end of it. No grand solution. No magic fix.
And then we left.
Outside the hospital I felt like I was suffocating, even though I knew I’d have it handled in a matter of days. Isa didn’t look much better—face tight, hands balled into fists at her sides, the way they always got when she was trying to hold it all together.
I dug through my purse, pushing past receipts, gum wrappers, and other trash I kept forgetting to toss out, until my fingers finally found the half-empty pack of cigarettes.
I knew Isa hated it when I smoked, and the giant “NO SMOKING” sign glaring at me from a few feet away was begging me not to. Which, of course, was exactly why I lit one up anyway.
She looked at the cigarette between my fingers and said, “We have to sell the house.”
I took a drag, letting the smoke burn all the way down my throat. “Oh, shut up, Isa. You’re not selling the house.”
She crossed her arms, stubborn as always, chin lifted as if the decision had already been made and I was just background noise. “It’s not up for debate.”
“Yeah, actually, it is, because I’m sayingno.”
She turned to face me fully. “Do you have a few hundred grand lying around, Val? Do you? Because if you suddenly got rich overnight, then congratulations. But it’s not up to you.”
I clenched my jaw, bitterness rising in the back of my throat. “It’s Mama’s house.”
“ItwasMama’s house.”
That hurt. It hurt way more than it should have. That house wasn’t just a building, it was childhood scraped knees and broken curfews. It was fights and forgiveness and Sunday dinners. It was Mama standing at the stove humming songs I’d never learned the names of, the scent of spices and home-cooked meals filling every corner. It was the last thing left untainted—the last thing I hadn’t already messed up somehow. And Isa wanted to sell it off like a used car.
“You don’t just sell something like that,” I demanded. “It’s—it’s home, Isa.”
She scoffed, but I saw the hurt beneath it. She wasn’t heartless. “Yeah? Then what’s your brilliant plan? Magic? A lottery ticket? Maybe pray some rich asshole suddenly decides to hand us a miracle?”
I bit my tongue, tasting copper and guilt. Because I was exactly that rich asshole.
Well, almost.
Money always came with strings attached, and these strings were tangled tight around my throat, choking out the truth every time I tried to speak it.
So instead I stayed quiet, ground the cigarette under my heel, and lied the only way I knew how—by saying nothing at all.
But silence had a cost too. It built up inside me, brick by brick, until it felt heavy enough to crush my ribs.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gone this long without a drink.
