Miguel glances at me, asking without asking.
I nod. There’s no universe where I tell my stepmother no when I’ve just tried to take myself out of her life for good.
She slips in, closing the door softly behind her like she’s afraid it might shatter. She’s still in her jacket, hair pulled back in a messy bun, rosary wrapped so tight around her fingers her knuckles are white.
“Hola, mi amor,” she whispers.
“Mamá,” I croak. I haven’t called her that out loud in such a long time, college made everything more formal, more balanced. Right now, all the armor is gone, and the word comes out naked. She crosses the room in three steps and immediately cups my face with both hands, careful of the IV lines and the oxygen. Her palms are warm and a little rough, and she smells like her gardenia lotion.
“Mi niño,” she says, voice breaking. “Ay, Dios. Mira nada más.”
“I’m—” I start, automatically reaching for “I’m fine” and finding it isn’t remotely true. My eyes sting. “I’m sorry.”
Her thumb brushes under my eye, catching a tear. “No,” she says sharply.“No pidas perdón por estar vivo.¿Me oyes?”
I nod, a helpless, miserable up-down.
She presses a kiss to my forehead and then to my bandaged wrist, very softly, like she’s blessing it. “You scared us,” she says,voice softening.“Mucho. Pero estoy tan agradecida que estás aquí.We can deal with the rest.”
I swallow around the lump in my throat.
“Dad?” I manage.
“In the hallway,” she says, expression twisting. “He… he wanted to give you space. He’s… a mess. Don’t let the suit fool you.”
I let out something that might technically qualify as a laugh. It comes out strained and wet. Miguel squeezes my hand. “I’m gonna give you and Mom a minute,” he says quietly. “But I’m not going far. Bathroom and bad coffee only.”
Panic flickers inside and my fingers tighten around his.
“Hey,” he says quickly. “I’m not leaving-leaving. Just… scooting.”
He leans down and kisses my temple. “Five minutes,” he promises. “Then I’m back to being your emotional weighted blanket.”
Miguel slips out. The room feels bigger and smaller at the same time.
Mom sits on the edge of the bed, one hand still holding mine. “Dr. K is coming later,” she says. “She’s talking with the doctors now about what’s best. They mentioned…programas intensivos. You don’t have to decide anything today.”
My stomach flips. “I can’t miss class,” I say, because that’s my knee-jerk reaction. “Exams, my GPA, the scholarship?—”
She makes a tiny, fierce noise. “Mijo,” she says. “You almost died. The exam can wait. The scholarship—” Her voice cracks. “We will figure something out. You know we would do whatever it takes before we’d let money decide whether you get help to stay alive.”
The outside world shrinks under the force of that. I always knew, in theory, that she’d go scorched earth for us. Hearing it in this context is… sobering.
A knock interrupts us again. “Can I come in?”
Mom looks to me. I hesitate for half a breath. Half of me wants to see him. The other half wants to crawl under the bed.
“Yeah,” I say finally. My voice sounds small. “Okay.”
He steps in, closing the door behind him. He looks like someone hit him with a grenade—tie loosened, shirt wrinkled, hair a mess. His eyes are red-rimmed in a way that suggests he’s been holding himself together by sheer force of will.
For me.
“Hey,” he says, hovering awkwardly near the foot of the bed. “How’re you feeling?”
“Like I lost a fight with a truck,” I mutter. “Full body hangover. Plus… this.” I nod toward my wrist.
He flinches, gaze dropping to the bandage and then away fast like it burned. “Yeah,” he says tightly. “That.”
