"That’s why you're always trying to take care of everyone, because you think it’s your role as an adult?" I asked quietly.
"Partly. But also because I love you all so much that sometimes I forget to save any energy for myself. Don’t feel like I’m doing everything out of obligation, this is what I love to do, take care of the people I love."
"What if something happened to you because you weren't paying attention to yourself? You can't be there for others if you're not completely okay with yourself. I don't know if I'm making myself clear."
I was afraid of revealing more than I should, but I needed her to understand my concern about her health.
"Is that what this is really about? Are you worried about losing me?"
I couldn't answer right away. How could I tell her that I'd already lost her once? That I knew exactly what it felt like to watch her waste away while she insisted she was fine, until it was too late?
"I just think," I said carefully, "that taking care of yourselfisn't selfish. It's necessary. Because if something happened to you, Dad, Leo, and I would be lost. You're the one who holds us all together."
She looked at me worriedly, "I didn’t realize you had grown so much, Lily. You're right, though. I haven't been very good about taking care of myself. I always think there will be time later, after I finish this project or that chore. But later has a way of never quite arriving, doesn't it?"
"Promise me you'll get checked regularly," I insisted, squeezing her hand back. "Promise me you'll take care of yourself as much as you take care of us. Promise me you won't ignore it if you feel like something's wrong."
She studied my face for a long moment, and I wondered if she could sense the desperation behind my words.
"I promise," she said finally. "I'll talk to your father about scheduling annual checkups for all of us from now on. And Lily? Thank you for caring enough to push me on this. Sometimes we need the people we love to remind us that our lives matter too, not just the lives we're taking care of."
"Your life matters more than you know," I whispered, relieved. That was a good start. That could get us a chance.
Suddenly, my mother lunged forward, tackling me into a hug that sent us both sprawling on the grass. She peppered my face with kisses as I squealed in protest, just like she used to do when I was little. "I love you, sweetheart. And I'm proud of the young woman you're becoming. You have such a big heart."
My mother didn't know how much those words meant, especially in my present, where I couldn't hear them even if I wanted to. And I swore at that moment that I would do everything I could to make her feel more and more proud of me.
The rest of the morning flew by between simple tasks and random conversations. Just my mother and me, weeding andplanting, talking about nothing and everything. It wasn't extraordinary in any way, but I was loving every moment of it.
At lunch, we all gathered around the table. Bailey curled up under the table, occasionally nudging our legs for scraps. My father's laugh boomed through the kitchen as Leo recounted a story from school, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his whole face alight with joy.
This was how I remembered him. Before the light in his eyes dimmed to a flicker. The boy across from me now was unburdened, unbroken, his love for his family apparent in every gesture, every glance.
In my present—my real present—he still smiled, still laughed, but there was always something missing, a shadow that never quite lifted.
Looking at him now, the contrast was heartbreaking.
After lunch, Leo disappeared to the room where we had the TV, and I followed, hovering awkwardly in the doorway. He glanced up from the couch, raising an eyebrow like he was waiting for me to explain what I needed.
"Want some company?" I asked.
"Can I be honest with you, or will you sit by my side anyway?" he joked.
"I will sit anyway," I confessed, not offended at all by his lack of interest in my presence. I approached the sofa and settled on the armrest, waiting for an invitation that never came. He just returned his attention to the TV screen, completely ignoring me.
This Leo was so different from the one I'd spent the last ten years visiting in prison.
The other Leo would light up the moment I walked into the visitation room, hungry for any connection to the outsideworld. He'd ask me a thousand questions, How's Dad? What did you eat for breakfast? Have you seen the movie everyone's talking about? Tell me about your day, every single detail.
He wanted to know everything, to feel like he was still part of my life, still human, still connected to something beyond those gray walls.
Prison Leo was my best friend. He'd dissect every story I told him, offering advice on my work problems, my failed relationships, even what I should order at restaurants. He'd memorized my coffee order, my favorite books, and even the names of all my coworkers. He knew me better than anyone because those visits were his lifeline, and he treated every conversation as precious.
But this Leo, the free, unburdened sixteen-year-old in front of me, had his own life, his own interests, his own world that didn't need me in it. He had friends to hang out with, video games to play, and a girlfriend who texted him constantly. I was just his older sister, someone who existed in the background of his life, mildly annoying but mostly irrelevant.
Looking at him, I felt a strange kind of grief. I was mourning a closeness that hadn't happened yet, and I felt awful for it. I was missing a version of my brother who only existed because his life had been destroyed.
I should be happy he was dismissive and self-absorbed like a normal teenager. I should be grateful he didn't need me the way prison Leo did.
