Page 34 of The Darkest Knight

The words hit like a sledgehammer to my chest.

I collapse against the wall and slide down to the floor, wishing I could go where my mom is. I try to pull myself together, but my body feels hollow. I look at my mom's face and I know this can't be it. I can't lose her. She's the only parent I have.

Memories flash across my mind, loving moments of us going to the park, the beach, that one vacation to Hawaii. Eating ice cream, her taking photos of me while I blow out birthday candles. Us in pajamas on Christmas morning, sitting by the Christmas tree, and my mom smiling as I opened my presents. Aunt Scarlett kneels beside me, pulling me up with shaky hands. Her face is red and blotchy, but she holds me like she’s trying to share whatever strength she has left.

We cry together, willing, wishing, praying for a miracle to save my mom. “But she still might have a chance, right?” I manage to say, when the sobs subside. “It could still happen?”

Aunt Scarlett’s tear-streaked face stares back at me. “The doctors are doing all they can, hon.”

It’s not the answer I want.

“She’s comfortable,” the doctor adds, so quietly it makes my heart break all over again. “She can still hear you, even if she can’t respond.”

That’s enough for me. She hasn’t gone yet. She might fight this and win again. The next few hours blur into a haze of tears and whispered memories. Aunt Scarlett and I sit on either side of the bed, holding Mom’s hands, recounting old stories—good stories. Happy ones. The kind that keeps her with us, even as we feel her slipping away.

We talk about the future too—about the things we wish she could be there for. My wedding. A grandchild, someday. More Christmas mornings.

We’re desperate. Holding on to hope with shaking hands.

At some point, my body reminds me it has limits. I need the bathroom. I tell Aunt Scarlett, and she nods wearily.

“Go, sweetheart. I’ll be here.”

When I return, Aunt Scarlett stands, looking even more exhausted. “I need to step out for a moment. Coffee, maybe something for you to eat?”

I nod, grateful, but I can’t eat. My stomach feels like a pit. “You go. I’ll stay with Mom.”

I sit by her side in a daze, not quite comprehending the moment. In a sea of bad days, in an eternity of bad months, today stands out like something big is coming. Something I’m not ready for. A quiet tsunami heading my way, ready to change the course of my life forever.

The room is quieter than it should be. The machines’ beeps have slowed, their rhythm faltering, unsteady.

I sink into the chair beside Mom’s bed. Her skin looks paler now, a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead. I take her hand—it’s colder than before.

“Mom,” I whisper, tears blurring my vision. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

Her eyelids flutter. Just barely, and I cling to it like it’s a miracle. I lean closer, my tears spilling hot and fast onto the edge of the bed.

I lean closer, my sobs choking me. “Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me. I still need you.”

Her breathing hitches—a shallow rise and fall. The air in the room feels wrong, heavy, like the world has stopped turning.

And that’s when I know.

The fight has gone out of her. She can't do it anymore, and it's wrong of me to beg her to stay. My mom is done fighting this terrible disease.

I press my forehead to her hand, clinging to it. Accepting defeat, and facing the inevitable. I have to stop being selfish. I have to let her go. “It’s okay, Mom,” I whisper brokenly. “You don’t have to fight anymore. You’ve done enough. You’ve done everything.” My words are barely words anymore, just broken sounds choking out between sobs.

That’s when the heart rate machine flatlines.

The wave disappears.

And an eerie silence falls.

I don’t know how long I stay like that, standing by my mom’s bedside, bent over, kissing her cheek and whispering promises she’ll never hear, that I’ll be okay, that I love her.

A nurse steps in a moment later, murmuring something I can’t process. She reaches for the machine, but I don’t look. I can’t look. I’m frozen, still holding Mom’s hand, as though if I just hold tight enough, I can keep her here.

“Cari,” the nurse says softly, a gentle hand on my shoulder. “She’s gone.”

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