[Micheal's POV ]
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When I push open the front door, the silence was what hit me first. Not the comfortable kind, but the heavy kind, like the whole house is holding its breath.
"Mum?" I called softly.
"In here, love," she answered, faint and shaky.
I followed her voice into the living room, and my chest tightened. She was on the sofa, hunched over, one hand pressed against her side. Her face pale, damp with sweat. For a second I froze, because no matter how many times I've seen her like this, it never gets easier.
I pasted on a smile I didn't feel. "You should've called me." Not wanting her to see my fear.
She tries to wave me off. "It's nothing. Just a bad spell. Don't fuss." A bad spell that never goes.
I almost laugh at that, but it's not the funny kind. Does she really think saying bad spell is going to make me less worried? If anything, it makes it worse. I'm more afraid of how hard she tries to downplay it, as if pretending makes the pain any smaller.
So I do what I always do—I fuss anyway. I can't not.
I pull the blanket from the armchair and drape it around her shoulders, tucking it in like she used to do for me when I was small. My hands linger a second longer than they should, like I'm trying to hold her together with touch alone.
"Sit up a bit," I say gently, sliding a pillow behind her back. "You'll breathe easier." At least that's what the doctor said.
She lets me, even though I can see the part of her that hates needing help. That part hurts almost as much as seeing the pain on her face.
I escape to the kitchen for a moment, more for myself than her, and fill a glass with water. My hands shake, so I grip the rim tighter until it stops. When I come back, she can't hold the glass steady, so I guide her hand with mine. Watching her struggle with something so small rips something inside me.
The clock ticking as she drinks the water. I sit beside her, trying to stay calm even as my thoughts run wild—anger, fear, helplessness, all tangled together.
"I'll make you some soup," I say quietly. My voice feels too small for what I'm feeling.
She manages the faintest smile. "You're a good boy."
The words nearly undo me. I swallow hard and brush a strand of hair from her face. "Just rest. I've got you."
She leans back, eyes fluttering shut. I hold her hand in both of mine, gripping tight like I can keep her anchored here with me. I stare at her face, at the way pain flickers through it, and I tell myself I won't cry—not now. She doesn't need my tears.
So I sit there, silent, keeping all the fear and anger to myself, because what she needs is comfort. What she needs is me. And I am so grateful for that.
The silence is thick and suffocating. My mother is in my arms, suffering in pain, and I can't do anything about it. Absolutelynothing.
Because of a cruel sickness, a sickness she never asked for, never deserved. No one does—especially not her. And yet here we are.
Fuckingcancer
I forced myself to breathe, to stay calm, but every shallow breath felt heavy. Her hand trembled against mine, and I griped it tighter, as if sheer force could keep her steady.
For a long time she stayed quiet, eyes half-closed, but then her lips parted. "Michael," she whispered.
"I'm here," I said quickly, leaning closer.
Her eyes found mine, watery but steady. "It progressed "
My chest tightened. "What?" I asked even though I knew what she meant.
She hesitated, and in that pause I already what was coming next. Finally, she said it: "It's stage three."
The words landed like a blow. The clock ticked in the background, distant, unreal, like I'd slipped into someone else's nightmare.
Stage three.
I wanted to deny it, but I knew it was true, the certainty in her voice couldn't be misplaced.
"Mum…" My throat burned, my voice cracked. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
Her lips curved into a tired smile, one that made my heart ache. "Because I wanted you to have more time without this weighing on you. I found out the day I went to the hospital with Tina.
The memory slammed into me—I remembered that day, how casual she'd made it seem, how she'd brushed it off with a laugh. And all the while, she'd been carrying this truth alone.
I shook my head, tears stinging. "Don't do that. Don't shut me out. I don't need protecting from you—I need to be with you, all the way through this."
Her fingers squeezed mine, weak but deliberate. "And you are, love. More than you know. Just having you here—helping me, holding me—it makes the weight lighter."
I swallowed hard, fighting the lump in my throat. "But it's not fair. You don't deserve this."