Page 40 of Isaia

Dragging a hand through my hair, trying to shake off the fire she just left me burning in, I let out a rough laugh.

There’s a twisted power in her refusal, a kind of control she doesn’t even realize she’s holding. And that refusal, that small taste of restraint, coils inside me like a snake, tightening its grip, making me crave her even more than I’d thought possible.

Chapter 12

EVERLY

The dining room is a pristine haven of sparkling chandeliers and immaculate white decor. Each table is its own secluded world, adorned with crisp, starched linens and hushed conversations.

I tug at my pink floral print maxi dress, suddenly feeling itchy in the soft sleeves, like they might be shrinking, as though they know I don’t belong here.

Mom sits across from me, delicately poised as always, even though I can see she’s tired, more fragile around the edges. A calm smile is painted on her face, but her eyes tell a different story. They are shadowed, filled with worry and exhaustion.

The waiter sets an amuse-bouche in front of me, some kind of foie gras mousse in a delicate shell. I know I won’t eat it, but I nod my thanks, trying to look like I know what I’m doing. My mother would never pick up on this—she’s more focused on appearances. But then, she’s always known how to float through these places, moving seamlessly in the world I do everything to avoid.

“How have you been, sweetheart?” she asks with a practiced sweetness I recognize but can’t quite absorb today. She looks at me like she’s trying to see into my thoughts, her face softening when she does.

“I’m fine, Mom,” I say, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “But I’m here to talk about you.”

She lets out a small sigh, barely a shift in her breathing, but I catch it. Her hand moves to the side of her glass, resting there lightly as though even picking it up would be too much effort. I notice the slight tremor in her fingers.

“It was a shock,” she admits. “But the doctors are optimistic.”

I feel my throat tighten, a sense of helplessness pressing down on me. “And the treatment plan?” I ask.

“I’m meeting with the doctors next week to discuss it. I just needed some time to process it before making any decisions.”

“Decisions? What is there to decide?”

A shadow passes over her face, and she picks up her glass, taking a small sip before setting it down precisely in its place. “Your grandmother had cancer, Everly. I saw what the chemotherapy did to her, how sick it made her.” The way she says it—a little too calm like she's rehearsed this line in her head—makes my heart stammer.

Her gaze is steady, but I see a flicker of something beneath it. Fear, maybe. Or resignation.

“Mom, this isn't the same,” I say carefully. “Medicine has come a long way since then. There are different treatments now, better options.”

“I know. And I am considering them all.”

“There is only one option, Mom, and that’s surviving.”

“Sometimes, surviving comes at too high a price.” She reaches for her glass again, and its clink against the table jolts me. “I just don’t know if I’m strong enough to go through all that…suffering.” She says that last word like it’s a reminder of what she witnessed when grandma died. “I watched your grandmother wither away, Everly. Day by day, that woman—the strongest woman I ever knew—was reduced to… just a shell. She was barely recognizable by the end, just skin stretched over bones, her eyes empty, like the fight had been drained out of her.”

She presses her lips together, swallowing hard, like she’s holding back a wave of memories that’s too painful to relive. Her fingers tighten around the stem of her glass, knuckles white against the deep red of her polished nails.

“All that chemo, all that radiation, it wasn’t healing her, Everly. It was breaking her, piece by piece.”

I bite back tears as I witness my mother’s grief casting long, dark shadows across her face. I reach over the table, my hand trembling to touch hers. “That’s not to say it’ll be the same with you.”

“It’s not to say it won’t.”

“Mom, please.”

“I don’t know if I’m brave enough to do this,” she admits, and I can hear how she struggles to hide her fear.

“You are,” I press, grabbing her hand with both of mine. “You are the strongest woman I know, and you can do this. You can’t giveup. You said yourself the doctors are optimistic. If they are, you should be too.”

“It’s part of a doctor’s job to always give hope.”

“Stop it,” I say, squeezing her hand. “You are going to fight, and you are going to beat this. There is no other option, Mom. That’s it.”

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