She wants to specialize in autoimmune diseases.
She doesn’t say it out loud often, but I know why.
Lupus didn’t just take our mom’s energy. It took her independence.
It started quietly, joint pain, fatigue, rashes no one could quite explain. Then the flares came harder. Kidneys. Lungs. Inflammation that moved through her body like it couldn’t decide where to hit next.
Some days, she looks almost like herself.
Other days, her hands swell so badly she can’t hold a mug. Her hips ache until walking becomes a negotiation. The medications help, sometimes, but the side effects are brutal, and the relief never lasts as long as you want it to.
The doctors started using words likecomplicationsandoverlaplast year. Then they stopped calling it just lupus at all.
Now it’s rarer. Harder to treat. Harder to explain.
Harder to promise won’t kill her.
Chicago was supposed to help. It felt like such a blessing, something good finally happening. Emily was accepted to UICfor pre-med with a direct track to Northwestern Feinberg, and Mom was added to the waiting list for the specialist.
Not only could we be in the same city, under the same roof, but things were going to get better. There’s a specialist here, one of the best. Someone who actually listens. Someone who talks about options instead of inevitabilities. There’s a clinical trial she might qualify for if we can get everything lined up in time.
If.
If the timing works.
If her body holds out.
If we can afford the costs, insurance won’t touch. It had taken months to get Mom added to my insurance after she lost her job. Forms. Appeals. Phone calls.
I’d had to check a box that said she couldn’t take care of herself anymore.
I still hated that I’d been the one to do it.
The train lurches to a stop, and I open my eyes as people spill in and out. I pull my coat tighter around myself, clutching my bag and counting the stations silently, grounding myself in something predictable.
When I finally step off, my legs feel heavy. The walk home is familiar: cracked sidewalk, flickering streetlight, the same corner store that always smells faintly like fried food and detergent.
Our building isn’t impressive.
Three stories. Brick. A little crooked if you stare at it too long. But it’s solid. And it’s ours.
Inside, the hallway smells like laundry soap and someone’s dinner. I unlock the door on our first-floor unit quietly.
“Lu?” Em calls out quietly.
“I'm home,” I whisper back.
The apartment is compact but warm. A lamp glows in the living room, casting diffused light over the mismatchedfurniture we’ve collected over time. A second-hand couch. A coffee table Mom refuses to replace becauseit still works. Photos taped to the fridge instead of framed.
Em is curled up on the couch in leggings and one of my old sweaters, her immunology textbook open on her lap. She looks exhausted and determined in equal measure.
“She’s still asleep,” she says.
“Good,” I reply, slipping my flats off by the door.
I move toward the bedroom quietly.
Mom is lying on her side, knees drawn in slightly, breathing shallow and carefully. Her face is pale, lines deeper tonight. One hand is clenched in the blanket like she’s holding on to something invisible.
