PART THREE
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Lucia Skips School
The first day Lucia missed school, Margret didn't notice.
Not immediately.
She lay curled on the couch, a thin blanket pulled up to her chest, her body heavy with fever and exhaustion. The morning light crept through the curtains, but Margret's eyes stayed closed long after the city had woken. Her bones ached. Her head throbbed. Even breathing felt like work.
Lucia moved quietly.
She dressed herself without waking her mother, smoothing her uniform with careful hands. She stood by the door for a moment, backpack on her shoulder, listening to Margret's uneven breathing.
Then she made a decision.
She slipped the backpack off and placed it gently on the chair.
The school bell rang without her.
Instead of classrooms and lessons, Lucia spent the morning bringing her mother water, pressing a cool cloth to her forehead, and reheating leftovers that barely filled a plate. She watched Margret closely, counting each breath, afraid of what silence might mean.
When Margret finally woke, it was nearly noon.
"Lucia?" she called weakly.
"I'm here," Lucia replied immediately, appearing beside her.
Margret frowned. "Why aren't you at school?"
Lucia hesitated just long enough for the truth to settle between them. "You needed me."
Margret tried to sit up, panic flaring in her chest. "No—no, you should have gone. I was fine."
Lucia didn't argue. She just handed her mother a glass of water and waited.
That afternoon, Margret slept again. And again, Lucia stayed.
The next missed day came easier.
Then another.
Lucia learned how to read her mother's body—the way Margret's hands trembled when she was about to faint, the way her voice softened when she was in pain, the way her eyes glazed over when fever spiked. She learned how to clean, cook simple meals, and stretch the little food they had into something that felt like dinner.
At school, teachers began to notice her absence.
At home, Margret began to notice the changes.
Lucia stopped talking about lessons. Her uniform stayed folded, untouched. Her notebooks gathered dust. One morning, Margret reached for the calendar and froze.
Lucia had missed an entire week.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Margret asked, her voice trembling more from fear than anger.
Lucia shrugged, eyes fixed on the floor. "You needed help."
"That's not your job," Margret said sharply, then softened when Lucia flinched. "I'm the parent. You're supposed to be in school."
Lucia finally looked up. "And you're supposed to be okay."
The words landed hard.
Margret looked away, swallowing the lump in her throat. She had tried so hard to shield Lucia from the weight of survival. And yet, here they were—roles blurred, childhood slipping quietly through cracks Margret could no longer seal.
"I'll be better soon," Margret said, though she didn't believe it herself. "You'll go back tomorrow."
Lucia nodded.
She didn't go back.
Each day, Margret's strength faded further. Standing became difficult. Walking felt dangerous. Lucia stayed close, afraid to leave her mother alone even for an hour. Fear ruled every decision now—fear of collapse, fear of discovery, fear of death.
Lucia began lying.
To teachers who called, she said her mother was sick.To neighbors, she said everything was fine.To herself, she said this was temporary.
But deep down, she knew better.
One afternoon, Lucia found Margret sitting on the floor, her back against the couch, eyes unfocused. Lucia rushed to her side, heart pounding.
"Mama, talk to me."
Margret blinked slowly. "I'm here."
Lucia helped her onto the couch, hands shaking. She stayed there for hours, refusing to move, terrified that if she did, her mother would disappear.
That night, Lucia lay awake, listening.
Breathing.Silence.Breathing again.
She pressed her face into the pillow to muffle her quiet sobs.
School became a distant memory. Survival replaced homework. Responsibility replaced play. Lucia grew older in ways no classroom could teach.
Margret noticed the change in her daughter's eyes—the way they held worry instead of wonder, calculation instead of curiosity. It broke her heart more than the illness ever could.
"I never wanted this for you," Margret whispered one evening, brushing Lucia's hair back with trembling fingers.
Lucia leaned into the touch. "I don't mind," she said softly.
But Margret did.
Because she knew what this meant.
Children who missed school fell behind.Children who grew up too fast learned the wrong lessons.Children who carried adult burdens became visible—to the wrong people.
And visibility was dangerous.
As Margret drifted into another restless sleep, Lucia sat beside her, staring at the door as if expecting it to burst open at any moment.
She didn't know it yet—but this choice, staying home, stepping in, filling the gaps—was the first crack in the wall Margret had built to protect them.
And somewhere, far away, the world that Margret had run from was still watching.
Still waiting.