Mom Left the Hospital, I Left My Girlfriend

I put my phone away and hugged Mom one last time.

"Have a safe trip, Mom."

I rested my head against her shoulder, so thin from her illness that I could feel the bones beneath her clothes, and my eyes began to burn.

"Once I finish the paperwork for my resignation, I'll take the train home tomorrow. I'll stay with you from now on. I'm not leaving again."

Mom paused.

"What about Nicole? Aren't you two getting married?"

Nicole Davis was my girlfriend, and one of the best internal medicine doctors at Aldora Medical Centre.

We had been together for five years. I'd moved across most of Corvia for her and started over in Aldora so we could build a life together.

But when Mom was hospitalized for 20 days and needed surgery for stomach cancer, Nicole never came to see her once.

Mom had checked herself into a hospital in Aldora without telling me. When my aunt finally called me on the first day, I was out of town on a business trip.

I had no choice but to call Nicole and ask her to look after Mom for a little while.

I told her I'd head straight to the hospital the moment my meeting ended and take over from there.

She was silent for several seconds after answering.

Then, her voice came through the phone, cold and detached. "Kevin's moving today. I already took the day off to help him, so I can't make it to the hospital."

With that, she ended the call.

By the time I finally got away and rushed to the hospital, Mom had spent five hours sitting alone in the lobby because she couldn't figure out where she was supposed to check in.

Her test results came back the next day.

It was Stage 3 stomach cancer.

I couldn't bring myself to tell her. Instead, I hid in the stairwell and cried where no one could see me.

When I felt like I couldn't hold myself together anymore, I called Nicole and asked if she could sit with me for a while.

She didn't even hesitate when she turned me down.

"It's Kevin's first day as an intern at the hospital. I can't leave."

Maybe she realized how bad that sounded, because she followed it with a few stiff words of reassurance.

"Stage 3 stomach cancer has a 50% remission rate. A lot of patients live for another two to five years after they're diagnosed. Try not to worry so much."

I froze.

My lips trembled, but for a long time, I couldn't get a single word out.

A lot of patients?

But I only had one mom.

We requested surgery on the third day, but it wasn't until the tenth that Mom was finally given a date.

Every day we spent waiting felt unbearable. I begged Nicole more than a dozen times to see if there was anything she could do to get Mom in sooner.

She refused every time.

According to her, the fact that Mom was related to her made it even more important that she kept things strictly professional.

Then, that same night, I went to the cafeteria to pick up dinner and overheard two nurses from Nicole's department talking in the elevator.

"I swear, I have no idea what Dr. Davis sees in that new intern. He recognized one of the patients during rounds as someone he went to elementary school with, and she actually insisted on pushing back the stomach cancer surgery on the 13th floor until Wednesday.

"Everyone here knows Dr. Casey operates on Wednesdays. He's getting older, and his hands aren't exactly steady anymore…"

The memory cut off when a tear fell onto Mom's clothes.

Her arms stiffened around me for a moment before relaxing again. Then, she stroked my hair with her rough, warm hand, deliberately keeping her voice light.

"Don't cry, Mike."

She gently wiped away my tears. "Things are going to get better."

She was right.

Mom had only ever had me. From now on, she was all I had, too.