Tears slide down my face before I can stop them.
Mama cups my cheeks. “You are our miracle. Every day you wake up is a blessing. If you’re tired, say you’re tired. We will carry you when you need carrying.”
Daddy nods. “There is no shame in rest. Even Christ rested.”
A small, shaky laugh escapes me.
“I don’t want to disappoint you,” I admit.
Mama pulls back slightly, frowning. “Disappoint us? For having a disease you didn’t choose?”
Daddy’s brows knit. “Lena, your worth has never been measured by your health or stamina to fight.”
That sentence brings about tears from a deeper place.
I look at them, really look at them.
They are not disappointed.
They are not burdened.
They are grieving with me.
And loving me through it.
Mama squeezes my hands. “We will pray. We will research. We will show up to appointments. And we will feed you until you protest.”
Daddy smiles faintly. “We will have faith in healing while also preparing for rest.”
I inhale deeply, something unclenching inside my chest.
I know in this chapter in my life, I’m not reading it alone.
Speaking of chapters, there is absolutely no way in hell I am telling them about the Provocateur chapter of my life.
That secret is going to the grave with me. Neatly wrapped in body glitter and stage lights.
I clear my throat and sit back down; palms pressed to my thighs like I’m about to confess to a crime.
“There’s… something else,” I say.
Mama tilts her head. Daddy leans back in his chair, patiently waiting to hear what I have to say.
I don’t ease into it.
“I’m in love with Zaria,” I blurt. “And we’re together.”
Both of them blink.
Then, in unison?—
“We know.”
I stare at them.
“You… what?”
Mama smiles gently. “Baby, we have eyes.”
