23 — Mama

Trevor didn’t look surprised when I walked back into the mansion. Maybe he expected me to come home. Maybe he knew I wouldn’t vanish, not with the media ripping everything apart outside these gates. Or maybe he just understood me in ways I never wanted to admit.

He stood at the kitchen island, sleeves rolled up, posture tight like he had been working through a problem for hours.

I set my bag down and met his eyes. “I’m not backing out.”

For a moment, nothing moved, not his expression, not even the rhythm of his breathing. Then his shoulders eased by just a little, almost too subtle to notice.

“All right,” he said.

The quiet between us felt familiar in a way I couldn’t ignore.

I reached for my bag again, mostly to steady myself, to have something solid to hold on to. Before I could step away, Trevor spoke.

“I made arrangements this morning.”

I paused. “You already told me that.”

He studied me for a moment like he was deciding whether to repeat himself. Then he continued anyway.

“Then you already know what I did,” he said. “She’s in a private wing now. Better staff. Better monitoring. I moved her to a hospital where she won’t be overlooked.”

My fingers tightened slightly on the strap of my bag, even though I tried to keep my face steady.

“I know,” I said again, quieter this time.

He nodded once, like that should have ended it.

I turned toward the hallway, needing distance before everything inside me started showing on my face.

“Alessia.”

I stopped, but I didn’t turn.

His voice wasn’t harsh. It wasn’t soft either. It stayed in the middle, controlled, deliberate.

“You don’t have to hold everything in with me,” he said. “If something hurts, say it.”

I looked back at him then. “And if I do, what happens after that?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Something in his expression shifted, not dramatic, just clearer.

“Then I listen,” he said.

It shouldn’t have meant anything. But it did.

I swallowed and looked away before it settled too deeply.

“I’m going to see my mother,” I said.

“John will take you,” he replied. “Text me when you get there.”

“I can text whoever I want,” I muttered.

“I know,” he said again.

That calmness unsettled me more than an argument would have.

I lifted my bag again.

Trevor’s gaze stayed on me, not demanding, not stopping me. Just there, steady in a way I didn’t want to think about too long.

“I’ll be back later,” I said.

He gave a small nod.

***

I got to the hospital before I felt ready to walk inside.

The building was newer than I remembered, all glass and polished stone that reflected too much light. It tried to look peaceful. It didn’t feel peaceful.

The smell hit me first. Clean, sharp, layered over something I didn’t want to name. Everything sounded quieter than it should have been, like even voices had learned to be careful here.

I stood at the entrance for a moment, fingers wrapped tightly around my bag strap, watching people move past as if nothing in their lives was shifting.

By the time I reached her floor, my steps had slowed without me noticing.

At the nurse’s desk, I gave my mother’s name.

The woman behind it gave me a polite smile. “She was transferred earlier today. Private room upgrade.”

She pointed me down the corridor like it was routine. Like this kind of change was something people said casually in passing.

I walked down the hall without speaking again.

The door was at the end.

I stopped outside it.

My hand hovered there for a moment before I finally pushed it open.

She was sitting up in bed.

Too thin.

Too still.

The sight pulled something out of me before I even said her name.

The last time I saw her, I told myself she looked tired. Now there was no hiding behind that word. Her shoulders looked smaller under the hospital gown, her face more fragile than I remembered, like the illness had taken pieces of her without ever asking permission.

Her eyes lifted.

She saw me.

And she smiled.

That was enough.

My chest tightened in a way I couldn’t control.

“Mom,” I said, and my voice broke halfway through it.

She opened her arms anyway.

I crossed the room too quickly, like slowing down would make me lose my nerve. When I reached her, I bent carefully and wrapped my arms around her, holding her like I was afraid she might slip away if I didn’t.

She held me back with whatever strength she had left.

That was when everything I had been holding in gave way.

It came out of me before I could stop it, messy and unsteady. I pressed my face into her shoulder, holding on as if that could keep her here longer, as if it could stop time from moving.

She still smelled like home.

That made it worse.

“I’m here,” I kept saying, even though I didn’t know if I was trying to convince her or myself. “I’m here.”

Her hand moved slowly over my hair, steadying, familiar.

When I finally pulled back, I saw her properly again.

How tired she looked.

How much she was trying not to show it.

We had barely spoken since I left after dinner at Trevor’s parents’ house. Everything after that had been rushed calls and short updates, me telling myself I would return when things felt more manageable. Standing there now, I understood how much of that had been an excuse.

Her fingers touched my cheek.

“You look tired,” she said softly.

A laugh almost came out of me, but it didn’t fully form. “You’re the one in the hospital bed.”

She gave me a faint smile. “I know.”

I sat down on the edge of her bed, still holding her hand.

“This place is different,” I said after a moment, looking around. The room was quieter, brighter, more private. A real window let in daylight instead of artificial glare.

She followed my gaze. “It is better here.”

“Who arranged it?” I asked, even though I already knew.

She hesitated just long enough for my stomach to tighten.

“Your fiancé,” she said gently.

I closed my eyes for a moment.

Of course.

Trevor.

I exhaled slowly. “Do you like it here?”

She nodded. “They are attentive. The doctors check on me often. I feel looked after.”

That should have been comforting.

Instead, it sat heavy in my chest because I could see the difference already. Less strain in her face. Less waiting in her eyes.

I squeezed her hand.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” I admitted quietly.

Her thumb moved over mine. “You are doing what you can.”

“That doesn’t feel like enough.”

“It is what you have,” she said.

I looked down at our hands.

She was right.

That didn’t make anything easier.

We stayed like that for a while. Small talk came and went. She asked if I was eating. I asked if she was sleeping. Nothing heavy enough to break either of us further.

At one point, she leaned back into the pillows. I adjusted them without thinking.

She watched me.

“You are trying very hard,” she said.

“I have to.”

“No,” she said gently. “You want to.”

I didn’t answer.

Because she was right again.

A nurse came in briefly, checked everything, spoke in calm professional tones, then left again.

After that, silence settled back in.

My mother looked at me for a while longer.

“You should rest,” she said.

“I will,” I replied automatically, even though I knew I wouldn’t.

She understood.

I stayed anyway.

And sitting there beside her, I finally let myself accept what I had been avoiding.

This wasn’t just about pride or marriage or arguments waiting outside these walls.

It was about time.

And I was running out of ways to pretend I had enough of it.