Lydia's POV
Morning light crept through the curtains softly, touching the walls of the small apartment as though it didn't want to wake us too abruptly. I stood by Zoey's bed longer than necessary, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest. Each breath felt like a gift I wasn't ready to take for granted.
My fingers trembled slightly as I reached out to brush a strand of hair from her forehead. The fear never left me, not really. It just waited in the corners of each room, in the spaces between heartbeats, reminding me that everything I loved could disappear in an instant.
"Mummy?" she murmured, rubbing her eyes with small fists.
"I'm here, baby," I said quickly, stepping closer. My voice came out softer than I intended, wrapped in all the worry I tried to hide.
She smiled—that familiar, brave smile that always made my heart ache and swell at the same time. "I'm not tired today."
I nodded slowly, studying her face for any sign of weakness, any hint of pain she might be hiding to protect me. "That's good, sweetheart. That's really good."
Getting her ready for school felt like rehearsing something we'd forgotten how to do. Her uniform hung loosely on her small frame, the fabric seeming to swallow her whole. I adjusted the collar once, then twice, then a third time, as if neatness could somehow protect her from what I couldn't control.
"Mummy, it's fine," she said, giggling. "You've fixed it already."
"I know, I know. I just..." I paused, my hands still fussing with the hem of her skirt. "I want you to look perfect."
"I always look perfect," she said with such confidence that I couldn't help but laugh, even as tears threatened to spill.
At breakfast, she ate slowly, chewing each bite with deliberate care. I watched her like a hawk, noting every swallow, every pause, every breath. When it was time for her medication, she took the pills without complaint, washing them down with orange juice.
"You don't have to come pick me up early," she said suddenly, looking at me with those wise eyes that seemed too old for her face. "I'll be fine, Mummy. I promise."
I met her gaze, searching desperately for weakness, for doubt, for any reason to keep her home where I could watch over her. I found none. Only determination. Only that fierce strength that reminded me so much of my mother.
"Okay, baby," I whispered, though everything inside me screamed to hold her close and never let go. "But you call me if you feel tired, you hear me? Even a little bit tired."
"I will, Mummy. I promise."
Walking her to school felt like letting go of something precious and hoping—praying—that the world would be gentle. She skipped ahead of me on the sidewalk, her backpack bouncing against her shoulders, turning once to wave with both hands raised high.
"Mummy, hurry up! You're walking like a grandma!"
I laughed despite myself, quickening my pace. "Well, excuse me for being careful!"
At the school gates, I knelt to her level, straightening her collar one last time. "Remember what I said. If you feel..."
"Tired, dizzy, or funny, I'll tell the teacher right away," she recited, rolling her eyes playfully. "Mummy, I know. You've told me like a hundred times."
"A hundred and one won't hurt," I said, pulling her into a tight hug. I breathed in the scent of her strawberry shampoo, trying to memorize this moment, this feeling of her solid and safe in my arms.
"I love you, Mummy."
"I love you more, baby. More than anything in this whole world."
She pulled away and ran toward the building, turning back once more to blow me a kiss. I caught it and pressed it to my heart, standing there long after she disappeared through the doors.
The morning air felt colder suddenly. I wrapped my arms around myself and finally turned away, each step feeling heavier than the last.
---
I arrived at work feeling like God had decided to show me mercy. For the first time in weeks, I felt something close to peace. The morning had gone well. Zoey had looked strong. Maybe, just maybe, things were finally falling back into place.
"Good morning, Mrs. Hale," I said cheerfully, checking my watch to make sure I wasn't late. The hands showed 7:58 a.m. Perfect.
Mrs. Hale looked up from where she was organizing the day's supplies, her expression as neutral as always. "Good morning, Miss Lydia."
I went upstairs quietly, my footsteps soft on the carpeted stairs. Mrs. Whitmore's room was dim, the curtains drawn against the morning light. She was still sleeping, her breathing shallow but steady. I didn't want to disturb her rest, so I quietly stepped out and sat down in the chair beside her doorway.
The house was peaceful in these early hours. I closed my eyes for a moment, allowing myself to breathe, to believe that maybe everything would be okay.
My phone rang, shattering the silence.
The school's number flashed on the screen. My heart stopped, then started racing so fast I thought it might burst from my chest.
"Hello?" My voice came out strangled, barely a whisper.
"Mrs. Lydia, this is Principal Morris. Please, you need to come quickly. Zoey collapsed during recess."
The world tilted sideways. The phone nearly slipped from my suddenly numb fingers.
"What? What do you mean collapsed? Is she—is she—"
"The ambulance is on its way. Please come to the school immediately."
I don't remember running down the stairs. I don't remember telling Mrs. Hale where I was going. I just remember the sound of my own breathing, harsh and panicked, and the feeling that my entire world was crumbling.
The cab ride felt like it lasted hours and seconds all at once. I kept calling the school, but no one answered. My hands shook so badly I could barely hold the phone.
"Please," I whispered to no one, to God, to the universe. "Please, not my baby. Please."
By the time I reached the school, my legs were numb, but I ran anyway. Teachers stood around in a loose circle on the playground, their faces grave. And there, in the center, was Zoey.
My baby. On the ground. Her body is trembling. Her eyes were unfocused and glassy.
"Zoey!" I screamed, pushing through the crowd. I didn't care about the stares, the murmurs, the hands trying to stop me. "Zoey, baby, Mummy's here!"
I gathered her into my arms, and she felt so light, too light, like she might just float away if I didn't hold on tight enough.
"Mummy," she whispered, her voice so weak it broke something inside me. "I'm sorry. I tried... I tried to be strong."
"Shh, baby, don't talk. Don't apologize. You did nothing wrong. Nothing." Tears streamed down my face, hot and unstoppable. "You're going to be okay. You hear me? You're going to be fine."
A teacher knelt beside me, her hand on my shoulder. "Mrs. Lydia, the ambulance is almost here. She just suddenly fell. We didn't—"
"Where were you?" I snapped, my fear turning to anger. "Why wasn't anyone watching her?"
"We were right there. She was playing, and then she just... collapsed."
The ambulance arrived with sirens wailing. Paramedics rushed over with a stretcher, their movements efficient and urgent. I refused to let go of Zoey's hand as they loaded her in.
"I'm her mother. I'm coming with her," I said, my voice leaving no room for argument.
In the ambulance, I held her small hand in both of mine, watching as they checked her vitals, inserted an IV, and asked questions I could barely comprehend.
"Has this happened before?"
"She has leukemia. She's been in treatment. She was doing better. I thought—I thought she was getting better."
The paramedic's expression softened. "We're taking good care of her, ma'am. Just hold on."
At the hospital, they whisked her away immediately. I stood in the hallway, suddenly alone, my arms empty and my heart in pieces.
"Please," I whispered again, sliding down against the wall. "Please, God. She's all I have. Please."
---
The doctor found me there an hour later, still on the floor, my tears dried, but the fear still fresh and raw.
"Miss Lydia?"
I scrambled to my feet. "How is she? Is she okay? Can I see her?"
He spoke carefully, his words measured and professional, but I could hear the concern underneath. "She's stable now. We've run some tests. Her body is still very fragile from the treatment. School routines—the physical activity, the stress, even the excitement—can be overwhelming for her system."
"So what do I do?" I asked, my voice cracking, desperation seeping into every word. "Keep her home forever? Lock her away so she's safe but miserable?"
He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Balance is key, Miss Lydia. She needs rest, but she also needs to feel normal, to have a childhood. It's about finding the middle ground."
Balance. The word felt like a cruel joke. How do you balance when everything is already tipping over?
"Can I see her now?"