Hazel went off in search of a handkerchief—or anything that could help. Her mother's auburn knitted sweater was soaked in patches, and the sleek fabric of her collar clung wetly to her skin. The sight had shaken her. As Hazel moved through the hallway, her thoughts strayed too, wandering down old roads—piled-up memories and imagined misfortunes that could've pushed her mother into such a state.
She said nothing was wrong with Dad, Hazel recalled bitterly. Then it had to be her health.
Just a month ago, Mrs. Allen had been diagnosed with low-risk myelodysplasia. Despite its tie to blood cancer, it hadn't seemed like something to fear—not enough to break her mother's steel composure. If anything, she'd faced the diagnosis with grace, calmly adjusting to the new lifestyle it demanded. But Hazel couldn't shake the thought especially after she had discovered the hidden doctor's report while cleaning her mother's room one very afternoon, it had stated that she would barely survive the next 10 years to come. Gripped with fear of losing both parents simultaneously, she decided to trim it down to her mother's health issues since it was more comforting and allayed her fears.
Maybe, she's tired of hiding how horrible it is to feel vulnerable—living every day knowing cancer could knock at any moment, thought Hazel
She stomped into the next room, her heart tight with suspicion. It had to be her health, she repeated, as if the act of entering the room could confirm it. She reached for a roll of tissue paper—the handkerchief was buried somewhere under a mountain of clothes, too far out of reach so she resorted to a tissue paper. She quickly made her way back downstairs.
Settling beside her mother once more, Hazel tried to gently coax her into talking, to explain what was wrong. But Mrs. Allen was vague, unreachable. She sat motionless, drowning in a flood of depression, her gaze locked on some invisible place far off. Tears streamed continuously down her cheeks, now warm and feverish to the touch. When she spoke, it was a string of mumbles—unintelligible and broken, like wind rustling through cracked glass. Nothing she said made sense and Hazel felt everything in her life at that moment turn sour. Frustrated from trying to get something out of her sad mom, she tried to retire to bed hoping it was all a dream or that it would all phase away and then she might finally open up to her.
The alarm clock buzzed from somewhere inside Hazel's dream. She jerked upright, pulled from unconsciousness with a start. Her mouth tasted stale, her breath warm against the pillow. Frizzy strands of hair clung to her cheeks, and her eyes ached. Despite nine uninterrupted hours of sleep, she felt bone-tired and a muscular pain hurt her arm from bad sleeping positions, as if she hadn't slept at all.
She sat at the edge of the bed, neck stiff and sore. A stray eyelash poked at her eye, forcing a wince as she blinked repeatedly. Her gaze landed on a magazine lying at the foot of the door—she must have knocked it over earlier. She flung it carelessly onto the bed, scolding herself inwardly for being so messy. Still, she ignored it and stepped out of the room, not even realizing how quietly she'd exited.
Just next door was her parents' room. The door stood slightly ajar. She paused when she heard her mother's voice—low, muffled, and faint. Probably on a call.
Hazel crept closer, instincts sharpening. Her ears strained, filtering each sound like static through a radio.
"I don't know... I don't know..." Mrs. Allen's voice trembled between sobs. Her nose was clogged—Hazel could hear it, thick and wet. She leaned in silently to hear more
Then came the sentence that turned Hazel's blood to ice.
"I got a call yesterday... They said he died in a fire explosion at the work building."
Hazel froze, the words gripping her chest like a vise. Who died? She knew something was up with her mother's strange attitude the previous night and it wouldn't be far from the phone call, she believed. She could feel an unsettling tension building within her. It choked at her throat and stung her heart from inside out. She hoped it wasn't someone she loved dearly.
"I'm doomed, Kate... I'm finished. James is everything to me. That fire is a bastard! It should've taken my own life too... but to leave Hazel alone..."
Her voice cracked violently as she said Hazel's name, rising higher and higher like a kettle about to boil over.
Hazel's heart raced. She leaned away, her back brushing the wall as she processed what she'd just heard. Footsteps approached from a soft thud on the ground. Was it her Dad?
"I'll call you back later..." her mother muttered.
Hazel didn't move. The footsteps grew louder. And then—Mrs. Allen appeared at the door.
Their eyes locked. Silence filled the space between them—tight and cold. They stared for three long seconds. Hazel's lips trembled, her face pale with disbelief.
"He's dead, isn't he?" she said softly, almost too calm. "You lied to me."
Mrs. Allen hesitated, guilt flooding her features.
"He died in a fire... right? Didn't he, Mom? And you... you kept it from me?"
Hazel's composure collapsed. The tears came fast now, uncontrollable. She dropped to the floor, sobbing, clutching her hair as the weight of the truth crushed her. Her mother had thought her too fragile, too young to be trusted with grief. That hurt more than anything.
Tears streamed endlessly—enough to fill a test tube, Hazel thought bitterly. When she finally stood, shaky and raw, her cheeks were slick and her eyes red-rimmed. Dark circles shadowed her face.
"This is why I didn't want to tell you yet! I was waiting for the right time!" her mother yelled, voice cracking from the strain.
"It's not true," Hazel snapped. "Dad—my dad—is not dead! It must've been a mistake. A misidentification or... or the message was for someone else!"
For a moment, hope flickered across her face. But her mother just looked at her—tired, broken, unmoved.
"Hazel... he didn't come home last night."
"So? Dad doesn't always come home every night. Maybe he had something come up. An extra shift or a last-minute meeting! Maybe he had to sleep over at a hotel or something."
"What?"
"I'm not believing that crap, okay? I'm going to work. Maybe this is just a bad dream." She lifted herself with so much velocity and fury, she felt her head spin.
Hazel didn't want to pinch herself. She didn't want confirmation.
She felt sick. The crying had worn her out completely. Her stomach churned. Some food she'd eaten the night before had risen back up, leaving a burning trail in her throat, then she swallowed hard.
She showered, dressed herself in something casual—though she didn't even remember what she picked out—and skipped breakfast. Her body moved on autopilot, but her heart felt hollow.
She arrived at the café—the latest she'd ever been. The air was warm and rich with espresso, but it didn't comfort her like it usually did. Hazel pushed through the door, trying to lift her face into something neutral. But the news kept playing like a broken record in her head.
Mildred was at the counter, tamping down coffee grounds into the portafilter. She looked up.
"You're late," she chirped, playfully.
Hazel walked right past her without a word.
"Hey. What's up with you?" Mildred said, raising a brow. "You okay?"
>"I don't think it's any of your damn business, okay?" Hazel snapped, turning sharply not listening to and having not also heard what Mildred said clearly. It was her fury speaking. "Just do your job. I employed you here, didn't I?"
The café went quiet. Mildred stared, stunned. Hazel's outburst had stunned even herself—but she didn't care. Not right now.
A part of her knew she'd gone too far. Another part didn't have the energy to fix it.
She didn't explain. She didn't apologize. She just walked past the machines and vanished into the back room, hoping the bitter scent of coffee would drown out the bitter ache in her chest. Mildred felt heartbroken. She didn't deserve to have anger showered on her for something she wasn't responsible for and she wanted to react badly.