Please Come Back, My Love Chapter 89

Elena: POV

I finished the pasta and set the pot aside. Nothing fancy—just spaghetti with garlic, olive oil, and whatever herbs Mom had in her tiny kitchen. The kind of simple meal she used to make for me when I was a kid.

Back when things were easier.

I plated two servings, added some grated parmesan I found in the fridge. My hands moved on autopilot. Cook. Plate. Serve. Don't think about anything else.

"Mom," I called toward the living room. "Lunch is ready."

She appeared in the doorway, moving slowly. Too slowly. Like every step hurt.

"You didn't have to do all this," she said, but her smile was genuine.

"Sit." I pulled out a chair for her. "Please."

She eased into the seat, and I caught the way she gripped the table edge. Like she needed the support.

I set her plate in front of her, then sat across with my own. The pasta looked good. Smelled good. I just wasn't sure I could eat it.

"This looks wonderful, sweetheart." Mom picked up her fork, but didn't take a bite yet. Just looked at me with this soft, sad expression. "You've really grown up."

I stabbed at my spaghetti. "Had to, I guess."

"No." She shook her head. "I mean... you're taking care of me now. Making me lunch. Being strong."

Her voice cracked on that last word.

"When you were little," she continued, "you used to follow me around the estate kitchen. Do you remember? You'd sit on the counter and watch me work. Sometimes you'd fall asleep right there, curled up next to the flour bins."

I remembered. Vaguely. The warm kitchen. The smell of bread baking. Mom's hands covered in dough.

"You were so small," she whispered. "Always wanted to be close to me. You'd hold onto my apron and refuse to let go."

My throat tightened.

"Now look at you." She reached across the table, touching my hand gently. "All grown up. Not just taking care of yourself, but taking care of others too."

I felt my eyes burn.

"Yeah." My voice came out rough. "I grew up."

I looked at her—really looked. The gray hair. The hollow cheeks. The way her hand trembled slightly on mine.

**"But you got old."**

The words slipped out before I could stop them.

Mom's smile faltered. Just for a second. Then she squeezed my hand.

"That's how it works, baby. People grow up. People get—"

"Don't." I pulled my hand back. "Don't say it."

She paused. I saw her swallow hard.

"Elena—"

"Eat," I said, forcing my voice to lighten. I grabbed my fork and twirled some pasta. "Come on. Before it gets cold."

I shoved a bite into my mouth, chewing mechanically. Tasting nothing.

Mom watched me for a moment. Then she smiled—smaller this time, sadder—and picked up her fork too.

"You know what?" I said, desperate to break the tension. "You're not old. You're just... seasoned. Like a good cast-iron skillet."

She laughed. Actually laughed. "Did you just compare me to cookware?"

"Vintage cookware," I corrected. "The expensive kind everyone wants at estate sales."

"Oh my God." But she was still smiling. "You're terrible."

"I'm hilarious." I took another bite. "Admit it."

"You're something," she said, shaking her head.

For a few minutes, we just ate. The silence felt lighter. Almost normal.

I watched Mom take small bites. Slow bites. Like even chewing exhausted her.

"How's the pasta?" I asked.

"Perfect." She twirled her fork carefully. "You always were good at this."

"Boiling water and throwing in noodles? Yeah, I'm a regular chef."

She took another bite. Then stopped.

Her face went pale.

"Mom?"

She set down her fork. Her hand went to her mouth.

"I'm fine," she said quickly. "Just—"

But she wasn't fine.

I watched her face turn from pale to gray. Watched her eyes go wide.

"Mom, what's wrong?"

She stood up fast. Too fast. The chair scraped against the floor.

"Bathroom," she gasped.

She stumbled toward the hallway. I shot up, following her.

"Mom!"

She barely made it to the bathroom before she bent over the sink. The retching sound made my stomach lurch.

I stood in the doorway, frozen.

She was vomiting. Violently. Her whole body shaking with each heave.

Then I saw it.

**Blood.**

Bright red, splashing into the white sink.

"Oh my God." My voice came out strangled. "Mom—"

She kept retching. More blood. So much blood.

I moved without thinking, grabbing a towel, reaching for her.

"I'm calling 911."

"No." She gasped it out between heaves. "Don't—"

"The fuck I won't!" My hands shook as I grabbed her shoulders. "You're throwing up blood!"

"Elena, please—"

"No!" I was screaming now. I didn't care. "No more lies. No more 'I'm fine' bullshit!"

She finally stopped retching. Leaned against the sink, breathing hard. Her lips were stained red.

I grabbed toilet paper, trying to wipe her mouth with trembling hands.

"This isn't normal," I said. My voice broke. "This isn't 'getting old' or 'standing up too fast' or any of the other shit you've been feeding me."

"Elena—"

**"You're dying."**

The word hung in the air between us.

Mom's eyes met mine in the mirror. For a second—just a second—I saw the truth there.

Then she looked away.

"I'm not—"

"Don't you dare lie to me again." Tears streamed down my face. "I just lost everything. My baby. My marriage. I can't—"

My voice cracked completely.

**"I can't lose you too."**

She turned, reaching for me. "Sweetheart—"

"Tell me the truth." I grabbed her arms, holding her steady. "Right now. What's wrong with you?"

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Her whole body was shaking.

"Mom." My voice dropped to a whisper. "Please."

"I've been seeing a doctor," she finally said. "For a few months now."

My heart stopped.

"What kind of doctor?"

"An oncologist."

The world tilted.

Oncologist.

Cancer.

**She has cancer.**

"No." I shook my head. "No, no, no—"

"Elena, listen—"

"How long have you known?" My grip on her arms tightened. "How long have you been hiding this?"

"I didn't want to worry you. You were dealing with so much—"

"How. Long."

She closed her eyes. "Six months."

Six months.

While I was drowning in my marriage. Losing my baby. Trying to kill myself.

She has been struggling against her illness all by herself.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I was sobbing now. "Why didn't you—"

Her voice broke. "Back then you were stuck in the quagmire of your marriage, dealing with a pile of your own troubles. I couldn't be one more thing you had to worry about."

"I'm your daughter!" I screamed. "I should have been there!"

"You were going through hell, Elena. I couldn't—"

"So instead you just let me come here, let me think you were fine, let me make you fucking lunch while you're—"

I couldn't finish the sentence.

She pulled me into her arms. I collapsed against her, feeling how thin she'd gotten. How fragile.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

We stood there in her tiny bathroom, both of us crying.

Finally, I pulled back. Wiped my eyes.

**"We're going to the hospital."**

"Elena—"

"I'm not asking." My voice was steel. "You're going to the hospital. Right now. Today. And if you try to argue with me, I swear to God I will drag you there myself."