My mother’s face tightened. “That is not fair,” she said. Fair.
“Fair,” I said, “would have been you asking how I was when I said I needed help.”
My mother’s eyes widened. “We did ask—” she began. “No,” I cut in.
“You asked about insurance. You asked about budgeting. You asked questions that kept you safe from the one question that mattered.”
My mother’s hands clenched on her purse.
“We were scared,” she said. “So was I,” I replied. My mother’s breath hitched.
She looked at Fern. “This isn’t your business,” she said. Fern’s face went pale.
“It is,” I said. My mother turned back to me. “You’re letting her manipulate you,” she insisted.
Fern flinched. I felt something cold move through me. “You don’t get to call her that,” I said.
My mother scoffed. “Oh, please,” she snapped. “She’s always been… sensitive.
Always been looking for handouts.”
Fern’s lips parted. Her eyes were wet. “Mom,” I said, voice low, “you have no idea what she’s given.”
My mother’s face hardened.
“She didn’t give you twenty years of her life,” she said. Fern’s shoulders curled inward. I turned to Fern.
“Hey,” I said softly. Fern’s eyes lifted to mine. “You did,” I told her.
Fern’s breath shook. My mother stared. “What is this?” she demanded.
“Some kind of performance?”
“No,” I said. “It’s the truth.”
My mother laughed—sharp, bitter. “You think you’re so righteous,” she said.
“You think because you’re sick, you get to rewrite the rules.”
I felt the old instinct rise: stay calm, stay controlled, don’t escalate. But this wasn’t a ship. This was my living room.
“My house,” I said. My mother’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t care whose name is on the deed,” she snapped.
“This is our family home.”
“No,” I said. “It’s not.”
She opened her mouth. I kept going.
“You didn’t pay for it,” I said. “You didn’t maintain it. You didn’t sit in it alone after deployments, shaking, pretending you weren’t human.”
My mother’s face changed.
“You were never alone,” she insisted. “I was,” I said. The sentence came out flat.
Not angry. Just true. My mother’s eyes flicked away.
For a moment, she looked… uncertain. Then her defenses slammed back into place. “So what?” she snapped.
“We did our best. We raised you. We supported you.”
“You supported the story of me,” I said.
“Not the reality.”
Fern’s fingers tightened around mine. My mother turned on Fern again. “And you,” she said, “you should be ashamed.
Taking advantage of your sister when she’s vulnerable.”
Fern’s body shook. Nothing came out. I squeezed her hand.
“I’m not vulnerable to her,” I said. “I’m safe with her.”
My mother’s breath caught. Her eyes went glossy.
For a second, I thought she might cry. Instead, she stood. “You’re making a mistake,” she said.
“Maybe,” I replied. “But it’s mine.”
My mother grabbed her purse. “You’ll regret this,” she said.
“I’ve regretted silence longer,” I said. My mother stared at me. Then she turned and walked out.
The door closed. Fern’s shoulders collapsed. She pressed a hand to her mouth like she was trying to hold herself together.
“Stop,” I said, pulling her into a hug. Fern’s body shook against mine. “I hate her,” she confessed into my shoulder.
The words surprised her. They surprised me. Fern pulled back, eyes wide, like she’d just committed a crime.
“I didn’t mean—” she started. “Yes, you did,” I said gently. “And you’re allowed.”
Fern’s breath trembled.
No one had ever told her she was allowed to feel. She cried, quiet, careful, like she didn’t want to make a mess. I held her.
Outside, the maple tree moved in the wind. Inside, the house kept holding. 9
After my mother left, something shifted.
Not in her. In me. It was like I’d finally said the thing I’d been afraid to admit: that being loved as an idea is not the same as being loved as a person.
Fern stayed close that night. We watched an old movie. We ate toast because neither of us felt like cooking.
At one point, Fern leaned her head against my shoulder. “Do you think she’ll ever understand?” she asked. I stared at the TV without seeing it.
“I don’t know,” I said. Fern was quiet. Then she said, “She doesn’t have to, does she?”
Fern’s eyes were steady.
The question wasn’t resignation. It was boundaries. “No,” I said.
“She doesn’t.”
Fern’s shoulders loosened. Like the permission mattered. 10
A month passed.
Then another. Treatments. Appointments.
Bad days. Better days. Fern learned my rhythms.
She learned which mornings I woke up nauseated. Which evenings I got restless. Which foods tasted like metal.
Which ones I could manage. She never asked for credit. She never performed care like a scoreboard.
One afternoon, when I felt strong enough to walk to the mailbox, Fern came outside with me. She hovered a step behind, trying not to hover. “I can do it,” I said.
“I know,” she replied. “I’m just… here.”
We reached the mailbox. Inside was a letter from the Navy.
Medical board paperwork. Fern watched me read it. “What is it?” she asked.
“Reality,” I said. Fern’s face softened. “You don’t have to be strong,” she said.
I laughed, tired. “Who am I if I’m not?” I asked. Fern’s eyes held mine.
“Bea,” she said. Just my name. Nothing else.
No label. No expectation. It felt like a hand on my back.
11
Calvin called two weeks later. I let it go to voicemail. Then I listened.
“Bea,” he said, voice careful, “I’m sorry if I came in hot. Mom’s been… you know. Anyway.
I just want to talk. I want to be there. Call me back.”
Fern listened with me.
“Do you believe him?” she asked. I stared at the screen. “I believe he wants the situation to stop being uncomfortable,” I said.
Fern nodded slowly. “Is that the same as being there?” she asked. “No,” I replied.
Fern sat on the couch, hands folded. “I wish he’d been different,” she said. “Me too,” I admitted.
Fern’s eyes flicked to mine. “You miss him,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
“I miss the version of him I wanted,” I said. “That makes sense,” she said. It did.
But it still hurt. 12
By winter, my hair had thinned. Not all the way gone.
Just… changed. I looked in the mirror one morning and saw a woman who had lived a hard year. Fern came into the bathroom with a towel.
“Here,” she said. “What’s that?” I asked. She hesitated.
“A scarf,” she admitted. I took it. It was soft, blue, with tiny white stitching.
Fern wouldn’t have bought it for herself. It wasn’t practical. It was kind.
“You don’t have to,” I said. Fern’s jaw set. I tied it around my head.
Fern watched. “You look like you,” she said. The sentence made my throat tighten.
I turned and hugged her. Fern held on longer than usual. 13
The first time I called the house “ours,” it slipped out by accident.
Fern was in the kitchen, making soup. I was at the table, reading. She asked, “Do we have any more onions?”
“In the pantry,” I said.
“Second shelf. Left side.”
Fern nodded, then paused. “You know this place like the back of your hand,” she said.
“It’s ours,” I said without thinking. Fern froze. The spoon stopped moving.
I looked up. Fern’s eyes were wide. “You mean…” she started.
I set my book down. “I mean,” I said, “it’s a home. Not a possession.”
“I’ve never had that,” she whispered.
Not because I didn’t know. Because hearing it out loud made it unbearable. “You should have,” I said.
“Maybe now,” she whispered. 14
Around New Year’s, my father called. His voice was quieter than usual.
“Bea,” he said, “your mother’s been… struggling.”
“She’s been struggling with the idea that she isn’t in charge,” I said. Dad sighed. “You don’t have to be so hard,” he murmured.
“I’m not being hard,” I said. “I’m being honest.”
Dad was quiet. Then he said, “Can I come by?”
I hesitated.
He arrived the next afternoon. He brought a bag of oranges. Fern made coffee.
We sat at the kitchen table. Dad stared at his hands. Finally, he looked up.
“I didn’t know how bad it was,” he said. “I told you,” I replied. “You did,” he admitted.
“I just… I didn’t hear it.”
Fern’s hands tightened around her mug. Dad’s gaze drifted to her. “And Fern,” he said, voice awkward, “I—”
He stopped.
The apology couldn’t find its shape. Dad exhaled. “I’m glad you were there,” he said.
It wasn’t perfect. But it was something. Fern’s eyes went glossy.
“Me too,” she whispered. Dad swallowed. “Your mother thinks she’s losing both of you,” he said.
“She lost us a long time ago,” I said. Dad flinched. Then, softly, he said, “I know.”
