The kind of hope Clara hadn’t felt in months. “Evan will be so relieved,” she said quietly. “He’s been worried about the bills. Maybe this will take some pressure off him.” Maggie paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “Maybe don’t tell him just yet.” Clara frowned. “Why not?” “Let’s wait until it’s in my account,” Maggie said carefully.
“You know how these things go — paperwork, transfers, delays. No sense raising expectations until it’s real.” Clara hesitated, then nodded. “Alright.” But as her mother tucked the blanket around her shoulders and dimmed the lights, a quiet thought lingered at the back of Clara’s mind — the feeling that her mother’s warning wasn’t about the money at all.
The days blurred again, stitched together by the same routine — the same nurse rotations, the same muted light. Maggie stayed most nights now, while Evan came and went at odd hours, his visits shorter, his excuses longer. Sometimes he’d walk in smiling too brightly, setting down a fresh bouquet as if it could erase the distance between them.
He’d talk about work, new clients, “crazy deadlines,” and Clara would nod, too tired to push further. She tried not to notice the way he always smelled faintly of perfume — not hers. One evening, after a long round of treatment, Clara drifted in and out of half-sleep while the nurses changed her IV. Their voices were hushed, but not enough.
“…breaks my heart,” one of them whispered. “She’s so sweet. And he’s always on his phone — I heard him the other day outside, whispering to someone. Definitely not business.” The other sighed softly. “I thought so too. You’d think he’d have the decency to wait, at least.” Clara’s pulse slowed. Their voices melted into static. She lay still, eyes closed, pretending she wasn’t awake.
When she opened her eyes, the room was dim again. Maggie slept in the chair beside her. The flowers Evan had brought last week were starting to brown at the edges. She stared at them for a long time, her thoughts moving through a kind of numb fog.
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