Resignation

The hospital doors slid open with that familiar whoosh, and the cold antiseptic air hit me in the face, reminding me why I hated coming here. I took the elevator to the fourth floor, walked the quiet hallway to room 412. Mom was propped up against the pillows, smaller every time I saw her, the oxygen mask fogging with each shallow breath. The morning light came through the blinds in pale strips across her blanket. Her eyes lit up a little when she saw me.

"Ash," she whispered.

I sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand. It felt too light, too fragile. "Hey. How're you feeling?"

"Same old." She tried to smile. "The meds are doing what they can."

Dr. Harlan came in a few minutes later. He was the one who never lied to me, never sugarcoated. He motioned for me to step into the hallway.

"The current treatment isn't holding back the progression," he said quietly. "We've talked about experimental options before. There's a new targeted immunotherapy trial — phase two data is strong. Early remission rates in cases like hers are encouraging."

My stomach dropped. "How much for the full course?"

He didn't hesitate. "Including the hospital stay, monitoring, follow-ups… roughly eighty-five thousand dollars. Insurance doesn't cover experimental protocols."

Eighty-five thousand. The number punched the air out of me. I stared at the floor tiles until they blurred. "Are you sure this will work?"

Dr. Harlan looked me straight in the eye. "There's a high chance. Not a guarantee — no treatment ever is — but the odds are a lot better than continuing what isn't working."

I nodded, numb. Went back in, sat with her a little longer. She was quiet for a while, looking at me with that soft, faraway expression she got sometimes, like she was seeing something I couldn't.

"You know," she said, her voice low and a little distant, "the way you carry yourself. That look you get when something's wrong but you won't say it." She paused. A faint laugh escaped her, more to herself than to me. "God, you're so much like him. Your father. So caring, so… but you'd rather swallow glass than let anyone see it." She shook her head softly, something tender and sad moving across her face.

I didn't know what to say to that. I never did when she talked about him. I just looked at her, and after a moment I smiled — small, helpless — because there was nothing else.

She didn't explain further. She didn't need to.

I kissed her forehead, told her I'd figure it out, and left before the burning behind my eyes could turn into something she'd see.

The bar was already loud when I got there — late morning sun cutting through the front windows, the smell of lemon cleaner and last night's liquor still thick in the air. The lunch prep crowd moved in the back. I slipped behind the counter, tied my apron like I'd done a thousand times. My head was still in that hallway.

Othello appeared at my side, wiping down a glass. He took one look at me and pointed. "No. Absolutely not. Whatever that face is, I don't want it in my section."

I almost laughed. Almost.

"I'm resigning," I said.

He set the glass down, turned to me fully, arms crossed. "Okay, dramatic. What actually happened?"

"Othello." My voice came out flatter than I meant it to. "I'm serious."

The easy smile dropped. He looked at me — really looked — and whatever he saw there made him go still. "Hey. Hey, talk to me."

My voice cracked on the next breath. Six years. I'd walked into this place with nothing but desperation and a fake ID. It had become more than shifts and tips — it was steady money for Mom's bills, school fees for my brother, a place where people knew my name and didn't judge. Leaving without warning, without even a proper goodbye, felt like ripping out a piece of myself. But eighty-five thousand dollars didn't wait for sentiment.

Othello didn't make me explain. He stepped in, pulled me into a quick, hard hug, and clapped my back once, firm. "Gonna miss you, brother."

"I'm going to miss you too," I said into his shoulder, and I meant it so much it embarrassed me. I held on for one extra second before I let go.

He pulled back and held me by both shoulders, studying me like he was memorizing something. "You good? Like — actually good?"

"Getting there," I said.

"You better call me." He pointed. "Not a text. A call. With your actual voice."

"Yeah." I untied the apron, folded it once, set it on the counter. "Yeah, I will."

He watched me go. I didn't look back because I knew if I did I wouldn't leave.