PART THREE
Chapter Twenty-Four: Missed Pills
The pill bottle felt heavier in Margret's hand than it ever had before.
She sat at the small kitchen table, staring at the faded label, counting the tablets again even though she already knew the truth. Three pills left. Three. She turned the bottle upside down and shook it gently, as if more might fall out if she wished hard enough.
Nothing did.
Margret closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair. Her head throbbed, a dull, constant ache that had become her new normal. The room felt too warm, the air too thick. She pressed her fingers against her temples and tried to breathe through the wave of dizziness.
She had missed yesterday's dose.
And the day before that.
At first, it had been one missed pill here, another there—always with a reason. Lucia needed school supplies. Rent was due. Food was running low. The restaurant cut her hours again. Each excuse felt temporary, harmless. She told herself she would catch up once things stabilized.
But things never stabilized.
The money never stretched far enough.
And now the pills were running out.
Margret looked toward the bedroom where Lucia was still asleep, her chest rising and falling steadily beneath a thin blanket. That sight alone steadied her. Everything she did—every choice, every sacrifice—was for that child.
She twisted the bottle cap back on and slid it into the cupboard, far from sight. If Lucia saw it, she might ask questions. Questions Margret wasn't ready to answer.
That morning, getting out of bed took longer than usual. Her legs felt weak, as though they might fold beneath her weight. She moved slowly, carefully, hiding the tremor in her hands as she prepared breakfast. Her body felt foreign to her now—unpredictable, unreliable.
Lucia watched her from the doorway.
"Mama," she said softly, "did you take your medicine today?"
The question landed harder than Margret expected.
She forced a smile without turning around. "Later," she said. "After work."
Lucia didn't argue, but her silence spoke volumes. She had learned, too quickly, how to read her mother's lies. They were gentle lies, meant to protect—but lies all the same.
At the restaurant, Margret struggled to keep up. The heat from the kitchen made her nauseous, sweat pooling at her temples. Her vision blurred at times, forcing her to grip the counter until the world steadied again.
"You okay?" a coworker asked, eyeing her with concern.
"Yes," Margret replied automatically. "Just tired."
Always tired.
By midday, her stomach cramped painfully. Skipping medication made her feel raw from the inside out, as though her body was unraveling thread by thread. She excused herself to the restroom and locked the door, resting her forehead against the cool tile.
This was what she feared most—not dying, but failing.
Failing Lucia.
That night, Margret finally told herself the truth: she could not afford the treatment anymore. Not consistently. Not safely. And inconsistent treatment was almost worse than none at all.
She lay awake long after Lucia fell asleep, staring at the ceiling as thoughts spiraled through her mind. She knew what untreated HIV could do. She had seen it. Heard the warnings. Ignored them for the sake of survival.
But survival was slipping through her fingers.
The following weeks were brutal.
Missed pills became skipped weeks. Her body weakened rapidly—persistent fevers, weight loss, infections that lingered too long. Even simple tasks left her breathless. She began calling in sick to work, and when she did go, she moved like a shadow of herself.
The restaurant manager finally pulled her aside.
"You need to take care of yourself," he said gently. "I can't keep scheduling you if you're not well."
Margret nodded, shame burning in her chest. She knew what that meant. Fewer hours. Less money. Less hope.
At home, Lucia's school attendance became irregular. Some mornings, Margret couldn't get out of bed. Other days, Lucia stayed home to help, pretending to be sick herself so her mother wouldn't feel guilty.
One afternoon, Lucia found her mother sitting on the floor, her back against the couch, breathing shallowly.
"Mama!" she cried, dropping her bag and rushing to her side.
Margret waved her off weakly. "I just… needed to rest."
Lucia knelt beside her, fear filling her eyes. "You didn't take the medicine again, did you?"
Margret looked away.
The silence was answer enough.
Lucia's voice broke. "Why didn't you tell me it was this bad?"
Margret reached out, pulling her daughter close despite the ache in her arms. "Because I didn't want you to be scared," she whispered. "You're already carrying too much."
Lucia buried her face in her mother's chest, sobbing quietly. "I don't care about anything else. I just want you alive."
Those words shattered something inside Margret.
She held her daughter tightly, tears slipping down her own cheeks. "I'm trying," she whispered. "I promise you, I'm trying."
But promises did not pay for medication.
They did not strengthen failing immune systems.
And they did not stop time.
As the days passed, Margret became more cautious—rationing pills, skipping doses, saving them for days when she felt close to collapse. Each missed pill felt like a small betrayal of herself, but she justified it with logic and desperation.
Lucia watched it all.
She watched her mother fade.
She watched the rules tighten—the curfews, the warnings about strangers, the insistence on secrecy. Margret's fear sharpened as her body weakened. She knew she was running out of time, and that knowledge made every decision feel urgent, final.
One night, as Lucia slept, Margret sat at the table with the pill bottle in front of her. One tablet left.
Just one.
She placed it on her tongue and swallowed it dry, her throat burning. It would help—for a day, maybe two. After that, there would be nothing.
She folded her hands and bowed her head.
Not to pray for herself.
But to pray that Lucia would survive whatever came next.
Because deep down, Margret knew the truth she refused to speak aloud:
The virus was winning.
And missed pills were costing her more than her health—they were stealing her time, her strength, and her chance to keep running forever.