I closed my eyes and saw Lily as a little girl in yellow rain boots, jumping through puddles outside our Chicago apartment. I saw her at twelve, making me a glitter-covered Mother’s Day booklet that said, “My mom can fix anything.”
But I could not fix this from Illinois.
“I’m coming,” I said. “Tell her I’m coming now.”
I hung up before Nora could offer sympathy. Sympathy would have cracked me open.
I told the clinic manager I had a family emergency, drove home, and packed in thirteen minutes. Sweaters. Medication. Toiletries. My charger.
Then, without knowing why, I opened the bottom drawer of my dresser and took out the old construction-paper album Lily had made for me when she was a child. The glue had yellowed. The glitter had faded. But I packed it anyway.
If I was about to walk into the room where my daughter was dying, I needed to bring proof that she had once been whole.
Part 2: The Truth Before the Flight
At the airport, while I waited for my emergency flight to Seattle and then Anchorage, an email arrived from Nora.
It contained a scanned copy of Lily’s hospice intake form.
Colin’s signature appeared at the bottom.
But near the section marked “Primary Contact Current Location,” Nora had added a note.
Mrs. Brooks, I thought you should know before you arrive. He is not on a business trip. His public social media shows he is currently in the Bahamas on a honeymoon with another woman.
I stared at the message until the words blurred.
Honeymoon.
Another woman.
My daughter was dying alone in a hospice room in Alaska, and the man who had vowed to stay beside her was standing under tropical sun, beginning a new life before Lily’s had even ended.
