Still no response.
Dick.
Finally, I see the three little dots appear at the bottom of the screen.
Drake:You insist on doing exactly what I asked you not to do—worry. Whether we win or not, it’s out of our hands. But, to get you out of your big ass feelings, you’ll be pleased to know Lara did great and everyone loved Max’s ideas.
I exhale.
Me:I got your big ass feelings. You know I don’t feel right sitting on the sidelines when we worked so hard for this.
Drake:You did a lot of the heavy lifting on the front-end. Let us carry the rest, Bro. We got you.
I don’t respond. I just smile, slip my phone into my pocket, and let myself believe him.
I sit in the chair beside my mom’s bed, elbows on my knees, hands clasped so tight my fingers ache. I can’t remember the last time I saw her still. Really still. She’s always been motion. Purpose. Noise when it’s needed. Strength even when it isn’t fair.
She raised two boys mostly on her own and somehow made it look effortless. Like it didn’t cost her sleep, fear, or pieces of herself she never got back. She worked. She worried. She prayed. She loved us loud and gave us grace, even when we didn’t deserve it.
Especially when we didn’t deserve it.
I’ve spent years questioning her choices. The moves she made. The way she held on when I thought letting go would’ve been easier. I didn’t always understand her logic. Still don’t, if I’m honest. But sitting here, watching her chest rise and fall with help, I know one thing for certain.
Every decision she made came from love.
Messy love. Fierce love.
I lean forward, resting my forearms on the bed, careful not to disturb anything. “You scared the hell out of me,” I whisper, myvoice low. “You don’t get to do that. You’re too young, too feisty for all that. Okay?”
My throat tightens. I swallow it down.
“I still have things I need to say,” I tell her. “Things I should’ve said already. About how much I see you now. How heavy all of it must’ve been. How strong you were when nobody was clapping.”
I breathe out slowly, pressing my thumb into my palm.
“You don’t have to be strong right now,” I add. “I’ve got it. Just…wake up. Let me tell you.”
The door opens behind me.
I don’t turn right away. I know that walk. That pause. That familiar presence stepping into the room like it doesn’t quite know where it fits anymore.
My brother clears his throat.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
I straighten and finally look back at him. I haven’t been alone with my brother like this in…I don’t know how long.
“Is she any better?” he asks.
I look back at our mother before replying. “Getting there. She definitely had a cardiac event,” I explain cautiously. “It wasn't the kind people usually expect it to be. Years of high blood pressure caused quiet, gradual damage.” I pause, swallowing. “They found it late, but thankfully not too late. The doctors are confident she will recover.”
Which still doesn’t make sense. She’s always been healthy. Ate clean. Walked every day. Took care of herself in ways most people don’t. But the doctors explained it was the type of heart disease that hits a lot of Black women and often goes unnoticed until it doesn’t give you a choice anymore. The kind that’s passed down in your blood, keeping scores of hurt and trauma.
“Probably your fault,” Elliot says.
I snap my head toward him just in time to catch it—the corner of his mouth twitching.
Is this idiot smiling?
