“I promise I won’t refuse.”
She let out a shaky breath.
“Then here’s my real wish. Can you be Mom’s wish granter too?”
I blinked, confused.
“You want me to buy her something?”
“I promise I won’t refuse.”
She shook her head firmly.
“No. Not that.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Everybody asks what I want. Doctors, nurses, you. Nobody helps Mom anymore.”
“Sophie…”
“She sleeps in that chair beside my bed. She only eats when I eat. She hasn’t seen her friends in months.”
“No. Not that.”
“She sold her guitar,” Sophie continued. “She used to play it every morning.”
Sophie stopped to catch her breath.
I reached automatically for the water beside her bed.
She took two small sips before continuing, as determined to finish this conversation as if it mattered more than whatever her body was putting her through.
It mattered more than whatever her body was putting her through.
“She said we needed the money, but I know she just stopped being herself.”
I didn’t say anything.
I couldn’t.
Then she reached under her pillow and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
“I made a list,” she said. “Things Mommy used to like.”
She handed it to me like it was something sacred.
“I made a list,”
I unfolded the paper expecting a list of things I could easily arrange.
By the time I reached the last line, I understood why Sophie had made me promise not to refuse.
The handwriting was small and careful.
Dancing in the kitchen.
Wearing lipstick.
I unfolded the paper expecting a list of things I could easily arrange.
Having coffee with a friend.
Laughing so hard she snorts.
A picture Mom doesn’t take.
Playing music again.
None of it cost a thing.
“Sophie,” I said quietly, “these are all so small.”
None of it cost a thing.
“They’re not small to her. Daniel, everyone keeps waiting for me to get better. And I want to. But if I don’t…”
“Don’t say that.”
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