So I did. I packed a bag and moved back into my childhood home, three hours away, to take care of her. My dad has been gone for years, and I’m her only child. There was no one else.
Those months were brutal. I drove her to every treatment, sat through every chemotherapy session holding her hand, listened as she cried at night when the pain was too much, and forced myself to smile every morning just so she could see that I was strong enough to carry us both.
Sometimes she’d look at me and whisper, “You should go home, Stella. You’re too young to spend your days in hospitals.” And I’d shake my head every time. “Don’t even start, Mom. I’m not leaving you.”
Evan checked in often. We spoke on the phone every other day. He always sounded supportive, telling me he missed me, that he was “managing the house” and “keeping busy.” His voice carried this tired edge, like he was under stress.
I thought it was just the distance, the strain of us being apart. “Promise me you’re eating?” I’d ask during our calls. He’d chuckle. “Yeah, yeah, don’t worry. I’m not surviving on just cereal. I’ve even learned to cook a little.”
I’d smile to myself, grateful that he was managing and he understood how important this was. Still, he never visited me or my mom. Not once. Whenever I asked, he always had an excuse — work deadlines, short-staffed shifts, or “I don’t want to take away from your time with her.” I wanted to believe him, so I did.
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