CHAPTER 2: Visiting Mom

Summer POV

The morning light finds me through a crack in the roof and hits my face like a slap. My mouth tastes of metal and cheap liquor. I breathe shallow, feeling the ache that lives in my bones after last night. I reach for the small white pills on the cracked table and swallow two without water. I close my eyes.

“I can’t have a baby now,” I tell the empty room. My voice sounds small, but I say it like I mean it.

My house is wood and old nails. The floor bows where I sleep. Rats make nests in the corner and their eyes shine when the light moves. Cockroaches scatter whenever I move. The walls are thin; I can hear everything outside, people coughing, someone beating a tin pot, the low rumble of a radio. All the houses here lean into each other like tired people on a bench. None of them are safe. None of them are clean.

I stand and my legs make a small cracking sound. I wrap my thin sweater around my shoulders. I push open the door and the smell of morning hits me, smoke, fried oil, wet dust. People poke their heads out. A child yells, then stops. A woman watches from the next house with her arms crossed. Everyone knows everyone’s business. Everyone knows my name when trouble walks by.

Then I hear the voice. A high, scared voice that rips the air.

“Don’t hurt me, please! Please don’t—”

The syllables tumble out of the child’s mouth raw and breaking. I don’t think. I run.

The alley is a jumble of broken furniture and plastic bags. The man stands hunched, one hand on the small boy’s shoulder, the other lifted. The boy’s face is wet with tears, and fear. His lip is split. He’s small, no more than seven. The man’s knuckles are white from holding on too tight.

“Hey!” I shout. My voice is rough. Heads turn. The man looks up and his face goes still when he sees me. For a moment I feel the whole alley watching, waiting to see what I’ll do. There is a small smile creeping from some faces, danger is entertainment here. But the boy is not entertainment.

The man blinks, like my name hit him. “Summer,” he sneers. “This isn’t your business—”

“It is now.” I walk toward them slow. My steps make the stones grind. “Let him go.”

“You don’t tell me what to do,” he says, voice low. He pushes the boy’s shoulder so the child stumbles. The boy cries out. My hands tighten into fists at my side. I can feel the cold part of me waking up, that black, bright thing that loves to break people.

“Touch him again and I’ll break your arm,” I say, low and flat.

He laughs, but it’s a high, thin sound. “You think you can—?”

I don’t give him time to finish. I move like I always move when it has to be done quick, fast and silent at first, then raw. I step in, grab the man’s wrist. He pulls away and jabs at my face. I take the hit on my cheek. Pain fires sharp and quick; I taste blood at the corner of my mouth. It makes me see clearer. The man swings again. I block, my forearm takes it. My skin stings. My whole body hums.

“Get off me!” he grunts.

“You get off him!” I spit back.

We strike each other like we mean it. He’s bigger by weight, but I have speed and the kind of cold hunger that comes from being pushed too many times. He swings a bottle; it misses. I duck, and his elbow cracks into the wooden post. He roars and charges. I sidestep, pull his arm out, and twist it behind him. His breath pops loud. People shout, some egging, some begging us to stop.

“Stop! You’re hurting him!” someone cries.

I hear it like a bell and it steadies me. I focus on the boy. He’s watching with wide, scared eyes, his small hands pressed to his chest. I lower my voice. “Run,” I tell him. “Go now. Don’t look back.”

He bolts, tiny feet hitting the dirt. He disappears between two houses. For a second I stand with the man curled at my knees, his face red, sweat running into the grime on his temples. He spits and swings at my head. I catch his wrist again, then my knee lands in his gut. He doubles over. I press my thumb into the soft place under his chin and push his face up so he looks at me.

“You hear me?” I say, voice cold as glass. “Leave him alone. Tell anyone you got business with him and I’ll make sure you forget how to stand.”

His eyes go wide. There is real fear lighting up behind them now, not the anger before. He reaches for a pocket and pulls out a scrap of paper with a name and a number. His hands shake so hard the paper crumples.

“Please,” he says now, small like the boy was. “Please, Summer—”

“Say sorry to him,” I tell him. “And when you come back, I’ll find you. You better remember this.”

He nods like a man drowning. He stumbles away, clutching his side, leaving the alley like someone carrying a beating inside his skin. People start to breathe again. Someone whistles low. The boy comes back from Mrs. Palma’s porch, wiping his face, and looks at me like I am a storm that passed through.

“Th-thank you,” he stammers. He licks his lips. “My dad—he’s been angry a lot.”

“Go home and lock the door,” I tell him. “If he comes back, scream. If you can, run. Do you understand?”

He nods, trembling. He hugs my leg suddenly, like a lifeline. I feel the little weight of him against my jeans and something hot and sharp hits behind my eyes. For a moment I almost let the softness in. Then I blink it away.

“You’re safe,” I say, because I need to say something kind and because it helps me say it out loud.

A woman from across the way calls over, “Summer! Don’t get yourself in trouble!” Her voice is worried but also full of something like respect. Respect and fear mix around my name.

I stand there, chest heaving, blood in my mouth, the man’s scuffed shoe prints on the dirt. My hands hurt from the fight. My knuckles throb. People mutter. A little boy tosses a half-eaten bread roll at me; I catch it without thinking and shove it into my pocket. Someone else hands me a rag to wipe my face.

“Jesus,” Rina breathes, coming up behind me. “You all right? You look like hell.”

“I’m fine,” I say. My voice is flat. I force a grin that tastes like grit. “Just another morning.”

Rina squints at my cheek. “You need to see a doctor.”

“No money.” I laugh without humor. “And a doctor would ask too many questions.”

Rina sniffs. “You’re late for work,” she says, checking a small clock on her phone. “You better go.”

I touch my hair with the back of my hand and feel sticky seams where sweat dried. I pull my sweater tighter. “I’ll be there.” I mean it. I always show up. Work keeps me from thinking too much.

I step away from the knot of people and move toward my door. I’m halfway inside when my phone buzzes, old, cracked screen, but it works. Rina glances at it and tilts her head.

I swipe. The name is short and sharp on the screen: MARCO.

I answer before I think. “Hello?”

“Summer,” Marco’s voice says, even, like he’s counting coins. “Later tonight. You have service.”

I pause, the words tumbling through me. Service. The shift at the club. The extra money. My mouth is dry. The taste of the pills is still in my throat.

“How much?” I ask.

“Enough,” he says. “three hours. Midnight. Be there. Don’t be late.”

“Fine,” I say. I try to make my voice steady. “I’ll be there.”

He snorts softly. “Good. Don’t mess up, Summer.”

The line goes dead. I stare at the phone for a long moment. Around me, life goes on, children chasing one another, women washing clothes, a man yelling about a missing rooster. My house creaks behind me. The rats still argue in the corner. The cockroaches keep their endless walk across the floor.

I put the phone in my pocket. My palms are still warm from the fight. The little boy’s thank-you still clings to me. And under everything, like a low drum, the dark part of me ticks and waits. It’s not proud, that part, it’s honest. It is the part that kept the man from breaking that boy. It is the part that will do whatever it must if threatened. It will kill if it must. It will take the last thing from those who deserve it.

I step out into the street. My shoes are muddy. My coat smells like sweat and old smoke. I tie my hair up quickly, wipe my face with the rag, and say to myself, quiet and hard, “One shift. One fight. Survive.”

I put the phone back in my pocket, the screen still glowing faintly. My palms are sore and my cheek stings from the fight, but I ignore it. I don’t head toward the club. I walk the other way, down the muddy road that leads to the hospital. The air is heavy, and my steps splash in shallow puddles. The smell of smoke fades the closer I get to the main road.

The hospital stands tall, pale blue walls, paint peeling, but clean enough to make me nervous. I always feel out of place here, like the dirt on my shoes will stain the floor. I take a breath and walk inside.

The air smells like alcohol and disinfectant. People wait on the benches, some crying, some silent. I nod at the nurse who already knows me. “Room 206,” she says without asking. I thank her and walk toward the room.

When I push the door open, my mother is sitting up on the bed, her thin frame lost in the white sheets. Her hair, once black and thick, now looks dull and sparse. The IV line runs into her hand. But her eyes, those still have fire in them.

“Summer,” she says, her voice weak but warm. “You came.”

“Of course,” I say softly. “You know I’ll always come.” I sit on the edge of her bed. She reaches out and touches my face. Her thumb grazes the bruise forming on my cheek.

“What happened to your face, dear?” she asks, frowning. “Nothing,” I lie quickly. “Just... work.”

“Work doesn’t give bruises like that.” Her tone sharpens for a second. She sighs. “You’ve been fighting again, haven’t you?”

I look away. “Someone had to.”

“Summer…” Her voice trails off, full of both worry and sadness. “You don’t always have to be strong like that.”

I stay silent. I don’t know how to tell her that being strong is the only thing keeping me alive.

She studies me for a moment, then shakes her head gently. “At least wear something nicer next time you come here,” she says. “Look at your clothes, full of holes. Brush your hair, hija. You’re still my daughter. You should look decent.”

I chuckle softly. “Ma, I barely have time to eat, and you want me to look decent?”

She tries to smile. “You always make time for trouble, you can make time to brush your hair.”

I laugh, a small, tired laugh. “You really never change.”

“Neither do you,” she says. Her eyes soften. “You think I don’t notice, but I do. You’re working too hard. Your shoulders are always tense, and you smell like smoke and metal. You come here tired, like you’re carrying the whole world.”

“I’m fine,” I say automatically. “I can handle it.”

She shakes her head. “You always say that. You think you can handle everything, the bills, the work, me.” Her eyes glisten. “But I see how you look when you think I’m asleep. You’re scared, Summer. I know you are.”

For a moment, I can’t speak. My throat tightens. “I just don’t want to lose you, Ma,” I whisper finally.

She smiles faintly, that same motherly smile that feels like home even in this cold place. “You won’t. I’m too stubborn to leave yet.” She tries to joke, but her cough interrupts her words. I quickly hand her a glass of water.

“Easy,” I say, helping her sip. “Don’t force yourself.”

When she settles, she looks at me again. “Promise me something.”

“What is it?”

“Promise me that no matter how hard things get, you won’t forget to take care of yourself too.”

I frown. “I am taking care of myself.”

“No,” she says softly. “You’re surviving. That’s different.”

I look down at my calloused hands. “It’s all I know how to do.”

She smiles again, faint but proud. “You got that from me.”

We both laugh quietly.

“I’ll bring you fresh clothes tomorrow,” I say after a pause. “And maybe some soup from the market, not this tasteless hospital food.”

Her eyes light up. “Only if you promise to wear something nice too.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Nice? Like what?”

“Like a dress,” she teases. “Or at least something clean. You used to wear bright colors when you were young. Now it’s all black and gray.”

I roll my eyes. “Colors don’t pay hospital bills, Mom.”

She reaches out and squeezes my hand. Her touch is cold, but gentle. “I know. But sometimes, looking good helps you remember that you’re still alive.”

Her words stay with me. I can’t tell if she’s talking about me or about herself.

I stay with her for hours, listening to her stories, about the old neighborhood, about how she used to dream of owning a small flower shop, about how she misses the smell of rain in the morning. I tell her I’ll find a way to pay for the next round of treatments, that she doesn’t have to worry. She just nods, as if she already knows I will.

When visiting hours end, I stand. “I’ll come back tomorrow, okay?”

“Don’t forget to eat,” she says. “And fix your hair, Summer. You’re pretty, just like me.”

I smile, biting back the lump in my throat. “I’ll try.”

As I leave the room, I glance back. She’s already closing her eyes, the IV line glinting under the weak hospital light.

I walk out into the hallway. The walls echo with beeping machines and quiet footsteps. My reflection stares back at me from the window, messy hair, tired eyes, and a bruise still darkening on my cheek.

“Fix your hair,” I murmur, trying to smile. “Be decent.”

I run my fingers through my tangled hair and whisper, almost to myself, “One more day, Ma. I’ll make it through one more day.”

Then I step outside, into the dying light, carrying the weight of her words, and the quiet fire to keep fighting, not just for myself, but for her.