Page 3 of His to Protect
A text from Lyra, my baby sister, lit up my screen. She wanted to know about how Mom was doing. Then immediately launched into how she'd aced her quiz and how her professor called her a natural. Mom was over the moon about it.
I typed back with trembling fingers and told her I was proud, adding in a heart emoji.
Too late for the "don't work too hard" part.
I shoved my phone away before guilt could take root.
I stripped off my scrubs and dropped them into the hamper, pulled on jeans, and a clean shirt before tying my hair back. Only then did I clock out. I drove home on autopilot, passing lights and empty streets in a blur.
The apartment smelled like chicken soup when I stumbled through the door. Mom sat on the couch surrounded by laundry, folding with careful, deliberate movements that betrayed her lingering fatigue.
“You’re late.” Her brown eyes, so much like mine, followed me across the living room.
“Emergency surgery. Touch and go.” I dropped my bag and took the towel she was folding from her hands. “I’ve got this.”
“I’m not helpless, Mireya,” Mom said.
“Never said you were." I folded the towel methodically. “But you're recovering, Mom. You need rest.”
She fell silent, studying my face with that unnerving maternal ability. She'd always been able to read me like an open book.
“That surgeon still treating you like furniture?” she asked.
I pressed my lips into a thin line. “Dr. Cross is focused on saving lives. That’s all.”
“Mm-hmm.” Skepticism dripped from the sound. “You saved a life tonight. Does he know that?”
I thought about Dr. Cross. He had offered a few perfunctory words after the surgery was done, already halfway out the door while I stayed behind with the resident to close.
“It’s fine, Mom.”
“You always say that.”
“Because it’s true.” I leaned down and kissed her forehead, breathing in her familiar lavender soap. "Sit. I'll make tea."
I got up and stepped into our tiny kitchen that barely fit one person. I braced myself against the counter and closed my eyes for a second, letting the world narrow to the hum of the refrigerator and the kettle filling at the sink.
The eviction notice was sitting in my bag. I didn’t take it out. I didn’t need to. But we only had three days left. Seventy-two hours before we lost this apartment.
And I had absolutely no idea where we’d go.
My phone vibrated in my pocket, pulling me out of my thoughts. It was an email from the hospital administration, requesting a meeting to discuss "an important matter."
My exhausted brain spiraled. Important could mean anything. Promotion. Demotion. Reassignment. Termination.
The kettle's whistle cut through my anxiety spiral. I poured chamomile tea and carried two cups to the couch, sinking down beside my mother. Some cooking competition played on TV, the contestants were racing against impossible deadlines to create elaborate desserts.
“Stressful,” I commented.
She raised an eyebrow. “Everything looks stressful to you lately.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
So, I sipped my tea and zipped my mouth.
We sat in comfortable silence, her breathing steady and even beside me. My gaze drifted around our small space—the worn couch, mismatched bookshelves, the corners we'd made ours over the years. Mom had raised Lyra and me alone after our father left. Then cancer had nearly destroyed her. Sheneededthis place—needed safety, familiarity, somewhere to heal without fear.
I couldn’t let us lose this apartment. I wouldn’t.
