“This is really mine?” she whispered.
She didn’t want to sleep alone that night, so I sat beside her bed, holding her hand until her breathing slowed and her grip softened. A few nights later, I heard her crying softly around midnight. When I went to her room, she looked at me with those big brown eyes and whispered, “Mom?” I froze — she had never called me that before.
“Yes, sweetheart,” I replied, my voice breaking. “I’m right here.”
She held my hand tightly. “Don’t leave, okay?”
“Never,” I promised.
In that moment, every empty space inside me filled up. The next month passed in a blur of hospital visits, medication schedules, and learning each other’s rhythms. Lila taught me she loved strawberry pancakes and hated oatmeal. I taught her to sing, despite my terrible voice. Some days, she was too weak to leave bed, and we spent hours on the couch watching movies. Other days, she insisted on baking cookies — even if half the ingredients ended up on the floor. Slowly, we found our way together, one quiet moment at a time.
Then, exactly one month after Lila moved in, everything changed. I was making tea when I heard a deep rumble outside — not just one engine, but several. The kind of sound that makes windows vibrate. I looked out and froze. A long black limousine sat in front of my house, flanked by sleek black sedans. It looked like something from a movie, expensive and out of place in our quiet neighborhood. Men in dark suits stepped out in perfect synchronization. One, a tall silver-haired man carrying a briefcase, walked up the porch. I opened the door before he could knock, heart racing. He asked if I was Lila’s guardian and introduced himself as Mr. Caldwell, an attorney representing an estate. He said there was something important I needed to know.Continue reading…
