The hospital was always a blur of sterile white walls, echoing footsteps, and the endless hum of fluorescent lights. Camila had grown used to its rhythm—the low beep of monitors, the antiseptic sting in the air, the occasional rushed whisper of emergencies just outside her door. It was a place of structure and control, where emotions were compartmentalized and buried under charts and protocols. She liked it that way. Here, everything had its place. Everything could be managed.
But today, the walls felt too close. The air too heavy.
Her office was small, crammed with years of effort—certificates lining the wall, stacks of patient files that never seemed to end, a framed photo of her children from a decade ago, all forced smiles and awkward postures. Camila sat behind her desk, shoulders tight with fatigue, her pen poised above a form she couldn't remember starting. Her fingers were aching from writing, from pretending.
Then the door creaked open.
She didn't look up. She didn't need to. The sound of boots—heavier than heels, lighter than sneakers—moved across the linoleum floor with a confident, uninvited rhythm.
"Hey."
Camila sighed, closing her eyes briefly before forcing calm into her voice. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm here to talk to you." came Julia's cool response, already halfway across the room. She didn't wait to be welcomed. She never did. The door clicked shut behind her with a finality that made Camila's chest tighten. "And don't insult both of us by pretending you don't know why."
Camila didn't lift her eyes from the papers. "Julia, I'm working."
"No, Camila." Julia said, voice low and sharp, "you're hiding. As usual."
That got her attention. Camila slowly placed her pen down, lifting her gaze with carefully measured irritation. Julia stood with arms crossed, posture rigid, a flicker of something wounded in her eyes—anger, maybe. Or heartbreak. Camila could never tell anymore.
"Say what you came to say, then go. Hurry up."
Julia tilted her head, almost smiling at the absurdity of it all. "Fine. I'll say it plainly. Your kids are falling apart, Camila. All of them. And you're too busy polishing your goddamn halo to notice."
Camila blinked. The words didn't make sense—no, they made sense, but they didn't fit. They couldn't be true.
"What are you talking about?" she said, but her voice had already dropped, unsure.
"Harriet's a wreck. She won't talk to you. She's barely sleeping and drinks to forget." Julia stepped closer. Harper is barely functioning—she's constantly in therapy, breaking down over what grandmother puts her through. Aura is practically wasting away. Do you even see how thin she is? And Jackson—" her voice faltered for the first time. "—Jackson's gone."
Julia's voice was bitter. "But of course, you didn't notice. You were too busy playing nurse of the year."
"I just don't understand." she finally said. "Why would he—? He never said anything. He didn't seem—"
"Because you stopped seeing them a long time ago, Camila." Julia snapped. "You see what you want to see. The obedient daughter. The perfect nurse. The mother who keeps everything together. But that's not real. It's never been real. You've built your life around what mom expected from you, and now your children are bleeding from the cracks."
Camila looked down at the stack of charts in front of her, but the lines and words no longer made sense. She couldn't even remember what patient file she was working on. Her breath came shorter, her pulse unsteady.
"You think I haven't tried?" she whispered, her voice raw. "You think I don't care? I broke myself trying to be what they needed."
"No." Julia said quietly. "You broke yourself trying to be what SHE wanted."
Camila flinched at their mother's mention.
Julia stepped around the desk, her voice quieter now, more dangerous. "She ruled us like a queen with no mercy. You were always the golden child, the one she polished and paraded. But that came with a cost. You did everything she asked. You let her turn you into a woman obsessed with control and appearances. And now you're doing the same thing to your kids!"
Camila shook her head, as if trying to physically shake the words away. "That's not fair."
"It's not fair that Harper still has to pretend who she is. It's not fair that Harriet and Cody are terrified of disappointing you. Or that Aura's convinced she has to be invisible to be loved. Or that Jackson thought leaving was the only way anyone might listen."
Julia's voice was shaking now. She wasn't yelling. She didn't have to. Her words cut deeper spoken low.
Camila turned away, staring out the window, the city lights blurred and distant through the glass. "I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought... if I kept everything in place, it would hold."
Julia exhaled slowly. "You weren't holding it together. You were holding them hostage to a life they couldn't breathe in."
Silence followed. Heavy and unkind.
"I don't know what to do." Camila said at last, her voice barely audible. "I feel like I've already lost them."
Julia looked at her sister—not the perfect daughter or head nurse—but a woman quietly unraveling behind her practiced mask. She stepped closer.
"You start by admitting that. Then you go to them. No speeches. No defenses. You just listen. You let go of who you think you're supposed to be and show up as who they need."
Camila turned, her eyes glassy, her posture no longer rigid but slumped with defeat. "Do you think they'll forgive me?"
Julia hesitated, then said. "They need their mother. The one who stops pretending."
Camila didn't speak for a long time. The hum of the fluorescent lights pressed down on the silence like static. She paced a few steps toward the window again, arms folded tightly across her chest as if trying to hold herself together with the sheer force of her posture.
Julia watched her, lips pursed, her expression a war between frustration and something softer. Concern, maybe. Or pity.
Then she spoke, voice flat and cutting:
"Do you even know why they're breaking down, Camila?"
Camila blinked, turning back toward her sister slowly, warily. "I—" Her voice faltered. "I just thought... maybe it was school, or... maybe it's me. The way I work too much. I'm never home like I should be."
Julia gave a bitter laugh. "Oh, it's you, alright. But not just because you're absent." She stepped forward again, voice rising with urgency now. "It's because you let her in."
Camila's eyes narrowed. "Who?"
"Mom." Julia snapped. "Don't play dumb."
Camila opened her mouth to protest, but the words stuck in her throat. Julia didn't give her a chance to recover.
"She's always there, always watching, always making comments. Picking apart Harriet's and Cody's partners. Telling Aura she's looking 'healthier' every time she gains a single pound. Lecturing Harper about how mental illness is just weakness with a different name. And Jackson?" Julia scoffed. "God help him. Mom's been calling him a failure since he was born."
Camila's brows drew together in confusion. "Wait... she said something to Jackson?"
Julia gave her a look that was sharp enough to cut. "You mean you didn't notice? You didn't notice how quiet he's been every time Mom's around? How he doesn't even look her in the eye anymore?"
Camila's stomach turned. She sat down slowly, her knees weak beneath her. "No... I thought he was just being a teenager. I thought he was pulling away from me. I thought—"
Julia interrupted, her voice suddenly softer but still hard with truth. "He was pulling away. But not just from you. From all of it. From her. From the weight of this family. From feeling like he could never measure up."
Camila blinked rapidly, trying to process. "Are you saying... Mom was behind him leaving?"
"I'm saying," Julia said, stepping closer, her tone deadly quiet now, "that he didn't feel safe in a house where his own grandmother calls him a 'disappointment' and his mother turns a blind eye."
Camila flinched like she'd been struck.
"I—I didn't know."
"You did. But you've spent your entire life looking at the world through her eyes." Julia pointed to the framed family photo on Camila's desk. "You've been so obsessed with her approval, you don't even hear how she poisons the air around your kids."
Camila's throat worked, but no sound came. A hot flush of shame crept up her neck. "I always thought she was just... old-fashioned. Tough, maybe. She always said she was trying to build resilience in them."
"Resilience?!" Julia barked. "There's a difference between resilience and emotional warfare. She broke Harper. She belittles Aura until she stopped eating. She turned Harriet into a nervous wreck who thinks love is transactional. And Jackson... she hollowed him out, piece by piece, until the only thing left was the part that said run."
Camila bowed her head, unable to speak. A tear slipped down her cheek, and she didn't bother wiping it away. The weight of everything was suddenly unbearable—years of silence, denial, compliance.
"Do you still think she's the answer?" Julia asked quietly.
Camila didn't respond right away. Her eyes flicked to the photo frame again. Then she whispered, "No."
Julia's posture softened, just slightly. "Then it's time to stop defending her. Because as long as you keep choosing Cece, your kids will keep choosing distance. Or worse."
Camila closed her eyes, the words cutting into her, truth unraveling the tight knots of her pride. She had spent so long trying to be what her mother expected, she hadn't realized what it had cost.
And now her children—her children—were the ones paying the price.