Chapter 21

Kayna’s POV

I woke to the sound of coughing.

It was harsh, ragged, the kind that scraped against the silence of dawn. My eyes flew open, and I bolted upright on the couch. The blanket I’d pulled over myself had slipped to the floor sometime in the night, but I didn’t care.

“Mom?”

I rushed into the narrow hallway, my bare feet hitting the cold floor. In the bedroom, I found her hunched over, one hand clutching the edge of the nightstand, the other pressed to her chest.

“Mom!” I hurried to her side, guiding her carefully to the bed. Her breaths came shallow, wheezing, her skin pale with a gray tinge that terrified me.

“I’m fine,” she tried to whisper, waving me off. But the tremor in her voice betrayed her.

“No, you’re not.” My throat tightened. “You should’ve told me how bad it’s gotten.”

Her eyes met mine, soft, apologetic, but stubborn as always. “I didn’t want you to worry, Kayna. You have enough on your shoulders already.”

That sentence was a blade. Always the same refrain, as if my love for her was a burden instead of the one thing that kept me standing.

Mateo appeared in the doorway, bleary-eyed and shirtless from sleep. His expression hardened instantly at the sight of her. “This has been happening more often,” he admitted.

I turned on him. “More often? And you didn’t tell me?”

He raised his hands defensively. “She begged me not to! Said you’d give up everything if you knew. Said you’d—” He broke off, jaw tight.

I looked back at her. “You were right. I would have.”

Silence filled the room. Only the sound of her uneven breaths cut through it.

Later that morning, after she’d drifted into an uneasy sleep, Mateo and I sat at the kitchen table. A mug of cold coffee rested between my palms.

He rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes shadowed with guilt.

“I wanted to tell you,” he said finally. “But you’ve been doing so much already. Sending money, helping me cover bills. I thought I could handle it.”

I closed my eyes. “We’ve both been handling things since we were kids, Mateo. Alone. Without her, without Dad. But this? We can’t do it by ourselves anymore.”

At the mention of Dad, Mateo’s expression darkened. “You know what she said yesterday, before you got here? That he’s been writing her again.”

My eyes snapped open. “What?”

“Letters. From prison. I found them in her drawer when I was looking for her medication last week.”

A chill slid down my spine. “Why wouldn’t she tell me?”

“Because she knows you’d react exactly like this.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Kay, what if this—her health, these threats it’s all connected? What if Dad’s past is circling back?”

I gripped the mug tighter, my knuckles white. The anonymous texts I’d been ignoring replayed in my mind. You really don’t know who’s watching her, do you?

“I don’t want to talk about him,” I whispered.

“But we can’t keep pretending he doesn’t exist,” Mateo shot back. His tone softened a little. “He’s still in prison, but his enemies aren’t. Maybe this is why you’ve been dragged into it.”

The idea left me reeling. Could it be possible? My father’s choices had already stained our childhood, left scars I carried into every room I walked into. And now… was I still paying the price?

…..

That night, I sat by my mother’s side as she slept. Her breathing was easier, but every so often, her face twisted with discomfort, a flicker of pain crossing her features.

I brushed her hair back gently, my heart aching.

“I’ll figure this out, Mom,” I whispered. “I’ll take care of you. I won’t let his mistakes hurt us anymore.”

But as I said it, doubt gnawed at me. Because deep down, I knew Mateo was right. The past had claws. And they weren’t done with us yet.

…….

The next morning, I woke with the decision already burning in my chest. Enough waiting. Enough pretending my mother’s condition was manageable. She needed real care—doctors, tests, answers.

“Mateo,” I said firmly when he emerged from his room, hair messy, eyes heavy with worry. “We’re taking her to the hospital. Today.”

He hesitated. “She’ll fight us on it.”

“Then let her fight.” My voice cracked, but I forced it steady. “I’d rather have her angry at me than buried.”

The silence stretched before Mateo finally nodded, the tight line of his jaw matching mine.

Convincing her wasn’t easy. She insisted she didn’t want the fuss, that hospitals were too expensive, that she’d be fine if she just rested.

“Mom,” I said, crouching by her side, taking her frail hand in mine. “I know you’re scared. But I’m scared too. I can’t just sit here and watch you struggle to breathe. Please. For me.”

Her eyes softened. For a moment, I thought she’d refuse again. But then she sighed, weary and resigned. “All right, sweetheart. For you.”

The hospital smelled like antiseptic and stale coffee, that sterile chill that made every sound echo too loudly. As soon as we checked her in, the nurses whisked her away for tests. Mateo and I sat side by side in the waiting room, the harsh fluorescent lights making everything feel even more unreal.

I stared at the linoleum floor, my leg bouncing with restless energy. “I hate this place.”

“Me too,” Mateo admitted, slouching in his chair. Then, after a pause, he added, “Do you remember the last time we were in one?”

I blinked. “When?”

“When Dad got arrested.” His tone was flat, but his eyes were far away. “You were nineteen, I was ten. Mom collapsed in the kitchen that night. We thought it was a heart attack. Turned out it was a panic attack. But I remember sitting right here well, not here, but a hospital waiting room thinking the world was over.”

The memory hit me like a stone thrown into still water, rippling outward. I did remember. The way the fluorescent lights flickered overhead, the smell of burnt coffee, the terrified stillness of Mateo’s small body beside me as I clutched his hand.

I swallowed. “I promised you then I’d take care of us.”

“And you did,” he said quietly. “But maybe… maybe we should’ve let someone take care of you too.”

The words pierced deeper than I expected. I pressed my hands together to keep from shaking.

Hours passed before the doctor finally came out, his expression too serious to inspire comfort.

“Your mother’s tests show significant issues with her heart,” he said. “She’ll need further monitoring and possibly surgery. We’ll admit her tonight to run more tests.”

My stomach twisted. “Surgery? Is she strong enough for that?”

He hesitated. “We’ll know more in the coming days. But waiting isn’t an option.”

I nodded numbly, clutching Mateo’s arm as if the contact could keep me upright.

That night, I sat by her hospital bed. Machines beeped steadily, tubes tangled like vines around her frail body. She looked smaller here, dwarfed by the sterile sheets and wires.

“Sweetheart,” she murmured, her voice weak but clear. “Don’t let this break you. You’ve always been so strong.”

Tears stung my eyes. “I don’t want to be strong anymore, Mom. I just want you to be okay.”

She reached for my hand, her grip surprisingly firm. “You’ll get through this. You always do. And when the time comes… you’ll have to decide what to do about your father.”

Her words chilled me. “What does Dad have to do with this?”

But she just closed her eyes, exhaustion pulling her under.

I sat frozen, her hand still in mine, the weight of her words pressing down on me.

What did Dad have to do with this? And why did it feel like every step forward brought me closer to answers I wasn’t ready to face?