Chapter 85 Our Mom, Our Everything
Sofia and Mateo's POV
We are nineteen, Sofia and Mateo Rivera—twins, born three minutes apart, always together, always different.
Sofia: the forward, fire in my veins like Mom, red curls wild, voice loud when I need it to be.
Mateo: the goalie, calm like Dad, dark hair, quiet until the net’s threatened.
We’ve grown up on ice and water—Mom’s hockey stories at bedtime, Dad’s rowing lessons on summer lakes, the Kane family chaos that felt like the safest place in the world.
Mom—Clara Kane-Rivera—was our hero.
The one who coached our first teams, who sat up late helping with homework, who cried happy tears at our first goals and saves.
She was the protector.
The one who made everything okay.
Until the night she wasn’t.
We were home from college for the weekend—Sofia from Wisconsin, me from Stanford—sleeping in our old rooms like kids again.
The scream woke us.
Dad’s voice—raw, terrified—“Clara! Clara, breathe!”
We ran.
Mom on the floor, Dad doing compressions, face gray, eyes wide with fear.
We froze in the doorway.
Sofia: I couldn’t move. My legs wouldn’t work.
Mateo: I dropped to my knees beside Dad, holding Mom’s hand—cold, limp.
The paramedics came.
Shocks.
Sirens.
The ambulance ride—Dad holding her, us in the chase car with Aunt Lily and Uncle Nathan who’d arrived somehow.
The hospital.
Words we didn’t understand: restenosis, occlusion, coded, ECMO.
Mom on machines.
Tubes.
Beeps.
We took turns at her bedside—gowned, masked, voices shaking.
Sofia first.
I held her hand, whispered everything I could think of.
“Mom, remember when you taught me to deke? You said ‘fake left, go right, trust your edges.’ I’m trusting now. Come back.”
Her fingers twitched—once.
Hope.
Then nothing.
Mateo next.
I sat quiet, like Dad taught me in net.
“Mom, you always said goalies see everything. I see you. You’re still in there. Fight.”
Tears fell on her blanket.
The family filled the room in shifts—Grandma Holly crying silent, Grandpa Rowan holding her, Aunt Lily sobbing into Uncle Nathan’s shoulder, Uncle Everett pacing like he wanted to fight the machines, Aunt Rowie pale with memories.
We heard the doctors.
“Critical.”
“Transplant list.”
“Next hours critical.”
We didn’t sleep.
We held each other in the waiting room—twins again, like when we were small and scared of thunderstorms.
Sofia: I kept thinking about her laugh—the way it filled the house.
Mateo: I kept thinking about her voice calling plays from the bench.
The monitors alarmed again.
We heard the code from the hallway.
Flatline.
Sofia: My world stopped.
Mateo: I couldn’t breathe.
Doctors rushed.
Shocks.
Compressions.
Time stretched—eternal.
Then—a beep.
Rhythm.
Weak.
The doctor: “She’s back. For now.”
For now.
We went in together—twins holding Mom’s hands.
She was still—machines breathing for her.
Sofia whispered, “Mom, we need you.”
Mateo: “The net’s empty without you.”
Her eyes fluttered—once.
Hope.
Then the alarm screamed again.
V-fib.
Shocks.
Flatline.
Sofia’s scream.
Mateo’s silent collapse.
Doctors working—desperate now.
Family outside—Grandma Holly’s broken “No…”
Grandpa Rowan’s prayer.
Aunt Lily’s sob.
Uncle Everett’s fist through drywall.
Aunt Rowie’s scream.
Time—endless.
Then—a beep.
Rhythm.
Unstable.
Doctor: “She’s back. But barely. The next minutes…”
Minutes.
We held her hands.
The monitors beeped—fragile.
Outside, snow buried the world.
Inside, we waited—love fierce, hope a thread, fear absolute.
Mom hung in the balance—alive, but only just.
The storm raged.
And in the longest night of our lives, no one knew if the next beep would bring her back…
…or if this time, the heart that had protected us all would finally stop.
The ice waited—cold, silent.
The water waited—deep, dark.
And the silence between heartbeats stretched…
…into a darkness we couldn’t see the end of.