PART THREE
Chapter Twenty-Five: Weakness
Margret had learned how to recognize the warning signs.
The dizziness that crept in quietly.The ringing in her ears.The way the room began to tilt even when she stood still.
But that morning, she ignored them.
She had no choice.
Rent was overdue again. Lucia needed food. And missing another shift meant losing the job entirely. Margret dressed slowly, pausing every few minutes to steady herself, swallowing hard against the nausea that rose in her throat.
Lucia watched from the doorway, fear etched into her young face.
"Mama… maybe you shouldn't go today," she said carefully, as if choosing the wrong words might break something fragile.
Margret smiled weakly. "I'll be fine. Just a short shift."
They both knew that wasn't true.
By the time Margret reached the restaurant, sweat clung to her skin despite the cool morning air. Her hands shook as she tied her apron, fingers fumbling with the knot. The familiar smells of oil and spices turned her stomach, but she forced herself forward, moving on habit alone.
For the first hour, she managed.
She chopped vegetables slowly. Carried plates carefully. Avoided eye contact with coworkers so they wouldn't notice how pale she looked. Every movement felt heavier than the last, like her body was sinking into itself.
Then the weakness surged.
It came without warning—a sudden wave that stole her breath and blurred her vision. The room spun violently. Margret reached for the counter, but her hand missed.
The floor rushed up to meet her.
The sound of her body hitting the tiles echoed through the kitchen.
Someone screamed.
"Margret!"
She tried to respond, but her mouth wouldn't cooperate. Her limbs felt distant, unresponsive. The ceiling lights burned too bright as voices crowded around her, overlapping, panicked.
"She collapsed!""Call an ambulance!""Is she breathing?"
Margret drifted in and out of consciousness, her thoughts scattered and fractured. Through the haze, one image burned clearly in her mind—Lucia.
Lucia alone.
Lucia waiting.
The fear jolted her awake just long enough for her to whisper, "No hospital… please…"
But no one heard.
Or maybe they did—and chose to ignore her.
She woke on a narrow bed, the air sharp with antiseptic. Her head throbbed, and her body felt impossibly weak, like every ounce of strength had been drained from her veins.
A nurse stood nearby, clipboard in hand.
"You fainted at work," she said gently. "Severe exhaustion. Dehydration. Your immune system is extremely compromised."
Margret turned her face toward the wall.
She already knew.
"Do you have someone we can call?" the nurse asked.
Margret swallowed hard. "My daughter… she's alone."
That was all it took.
They discharged her earlier than recommended, giving her warnings instead of solutions. Rest. Nutrition. Medication compliance. Words that sounded hollow when spoken to someone who could afford none of it.
Margret walked home slowly, each step a battle. By the time she reached the apartment, Lucia was sitting on the floor by the door, knees pulled to her chest, eyes red from crying.
"Mama!"
Lucia rushed to her, stopping short when she saw her mother's condition. "What happened? They said you fainted—someone came to school looking for me—"
Margret sank onto the couch, pulling Lucia into her arms. Her body trembled uncontrollably.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."
Lucia clung to her, shaking. "You scared me. I thought… I thought I lost you."
Margret closed her eyes, tears spilling freely now. She had never felt so powerless. Not against David. Not while running. Not even while sick.
This—this was different.
This was her body surrendering.
That night, Margret couldn't stand without help. Lucia brought her water, blankets, anything she could think of. The roles had shifted quietly, painfully. The child had become the caretaker.
Lucia sat beside her mother, holding her hand long after sleep should have claimed her.
"You're not allowed to leave me," Lucia said softly. "Not now. Not ever."
Margret forced herself to smile, though fear clawed at her chest. "I'm still here," she said. "And I'll stay as long as I can."
But deep down, she understood what the collapse meant.
Her body was no longer keeping pace with her will.
The virus was no longer something she could hide, negotiate with, or outwork. It was taking control—slowly, relentlessly.
And with every passing day, Margret felt the walls closing in.
If she fell again…If she couldn't work…If she couldn't protect Lucia…
Then running would no longer be enough.
As Lucia finally drifted to sleep beside her, Margret stared into the darkness, her mind racing.
She needed a plan.
Because weakness had finally caught up to her—and the cost of collapsing once was far too high to risk again.