Chapter 4 - THE LETTERS TO LILY
I waited until Mom was asleep before Ryan drove me home.
The house felt wrong without her.
Too quiet.
Lily was staying with Ryan’s sister for the night.
For the first time since her birth, nobody needed me for exactly fifteen minutes.
I went straight to Mom’s room.
The blue folder was inside her suitcase.
I almost wished I had ignored it.
The first document was ordinary.
Advance directive.
Healthcare proxy.
Insurance information.
List of accounts.
Funeral preferences.
My hands shook anyway.
Then I found the envelopes.
There were eighteen.
Each labeled in Mom’s handwriting.
LILY — AGE 1
LILY — AGE 2
LILY — AGE 3
All the way to eighteen.
I sat on the floor.
Ryan crouched beside me.
“Oh, Megan.”
I opened the first.
I shouldn’t have.
I did anyway.
Dear Lily,
If your mother is giving you this letter, then I did not get as much time with you as I wanted.
My vision blurred.
You were four months old the first time you laughed at me. I was singing badly, which your mother inherited from me despite what she claims.
I started sobbing.
Ryan held me.
The letter continued:
I need you to know that helping care for you was never a burden. Those early mornings when everyone else was asleep were some of the happiest hours of my life.
There was a photograph inside.
Mom sitting in the rocking chair with Lily on her chest.
Bald spot at Mom’s temple.
I had never noticed.
Treatment.
I opened another envelope.
Ryan gently stopped me.
“Maybe not all tonight.”
He was right.
Then I found the financial documents.
I had been wiring Mom $1,500 every month.
She told me I was paying her too much.
Apparently she meant it.
She had transferred almost every dollar into an education account for Lily.
Balance:
$8,700.
I stared.
“She didn’t use any of it.”
Ryan shook his head.
Then I found invoices from her oncology treatment.
Copays.
Transportation.
Medication.
She had been paying those herself.
From retirement savings.
I suddenly remembered the expensive skin cream I bought her.
The vitamins.
The cardigan.
All those gifts.
I had been congratulating myself for taking care of my mother while she was quietly financing cancer treatment and raising my child.
Ryan saw my face.
“Stop.”
“I’m horrible.”
“No.”
“I accused her of sleeping around.”
“You said something cruel.”
“That doesn’t make your entire life cruel.”
“I didn’t see her.”
He became quiet.
That was the sentence.
I didn’t see her.
She cooked.
I said thank you.
She folded laundry.
I bought flowers.
She said her back hurt.
I bought patches.
She stopped eating.
I teased her bloating.
Every symptom became an inconvenience I solved with an Amazon order instead of a conversation.
My phone buzzed.
Work.
My director, Claire Donovan.
Tomorrow’s client review moved to 8:30. Need your final deck tonight if possible.
I stared.
The biggest project of my career.
Eleven months of work.
Promotion attached.
Six months earlier, I would have opened my laptop immediately.
Instead, I typed:
My mother has been hospitalized with a serious illness. I will not be available tomorrow. I’ll send all current materials tonight so the team can proceed without me.
I stared at the message.
Terrified.
Then pressed send.
Thirty seconds later, Claire replied.
Forget the deck. Be with your mother. We’ll handle it. Call when you’re ready.
I stared.
That easy.
Mom had been hiding cancer because she thought my project could not survive without me.
I had been treating it that way too.
But the world had not collapsed.
One email.
That was all.
Ryan whispered:
“You okay?”
“No.”
Then I looked at the eighteen letters.
“I’m going back to the hospital.”
At 2:13 in the morning, I sat beside Mom’s bed.
She opened her eyes.
“What are you doing here?”
I held up the blue folder.
Her expression fell.
“You found them.”
“Yes.”
“I told you to find them.”
“I know.”
I pulled my chair closer.
Then I said:
“You are not allowed to write Lily’s eighteenth-birthday letter yet.”
Mom almost smiled.
“Megan.”
“I’m serious.”
“I’m not promising anything.”
“Neither am I.”
I took her hand.
“But tomorrow, when Dr. Shah talks about treatment, you’re going to listen.”
She closed her eyes.
“And you’re going to stop making medical decisions based on my work calendar.”
A tiny smile.
“Bossy.”
“Yes.”
“I learned from you.”
Her eyes filled.
Then she whispered:
“What about the project?”
“I left.”
She looked horrified.
“You what?”
“I took leave.”
“Megan!”
There she was.
My mother.
Furious I had rearranged my life for her while hooked up to an IV.
I laughed.
Then cried.
She cried too.
And for the first time since she moved into my house—
May you like
we stopped pretending either of us was fine.
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