A Script of Borrowed Times

JULIA POV

I immediately grabbed the remote with trembling hands, frantically pressing the buttons to switch the TV to another channel. My heart pounded so violently in my chest that it created an unbearable ache.

I was terrified that if I was even a second too late changing the channel, the beautiful image of a hero living inside my little girl’s head would shatter into pieces in an instant. I did not want her to see her mother being treated like garbage in front of the public.

“Sweetheart...” My voice caught in my throat, sounding hoarse and pathetic.

Jilly looked at me, tilting her head slightly, now nearly bald from the endless rounds of chemotherapy. The eyes, usually dim and exhausted, now looked deeply disturbed.

“Why did they do that to you, Mom? Why were the people on TV yelling at you?”

Damn it, too late!

I quickly shook my head, forcing a smile that felt as stiff as an iron mask on my face.

“It’s nothing, sweetheart,” I lied, and the lie tasted hollow on my tongue.

I hurried to sit on the edge of her narrow hospital bed that smelled faintly of medicine. I wrapped my arms around Jilly’s small body as carefully as possible, restraining every movement because I was afraid of hurting her thin arm, which still had an IV needle taped into it.

But lately, every time I hugged Jilly, my embrace felt emptier.

Her body felt lighter with each passing day, as if she were nothing more than a wisp of smoke that could disappear from my arms at any moment.

That reality made my chest tighten so painfully that it felt as though I had been struck by a sledgehammer.

I buried my face in her thin shoulder, breathing in her scent, now heavily mixed with the sharp smell of hospital antiseptic.

“No, sweetheart. They were not angry at me. It was all just... a misunderstanding,” I whispered softly near her ear.

I squeezed my eyes shut and bit the inside of my lip as hard as I could.

I refused to let the tears fall.

Because I did not want Jilly to see my swollen, red, broken eyes.

It would only make her sad and blame herself.

My daughter was only six years old, but months spent in this oncology ward had forced her to grow far beyond her years.

She had become incredibly sensitive to every emotional shift around her, especially mine.

“Does Damon hate you, Mom?”

Jilly’s innocent question suddenly pierced straight through my heart.

I flinched and slowly loosened my embrace so I could look directly into her clear, round eyes.

Jilly pointed toward the TV screen, even though the channel had long since changed to a noisy cartoon program.

“On TV, they said Mom hurt Damon. That cannot be true, right?” Jilly shook her head firmly, as though she was trying to convince herself while building a defense for me. “Damon is a good person. He is brave and never afraid of anything. There is no way he could hate Mom.”

Seeing the pure hope and admiration shining in her eyes, I could only nod helplessly, betraying all the anger raging inside my head.

“Yes, sweetheart. The news is completely wrong. None of what was on TV is true.”

“But... did Mom really meet him?” Jilly asked again.

Her eyes instantly lit up, radiating a spark of life that had long disappeared from her pale face.

I fell silent. My tongue suddenly felt numb and stiff.

How could I possibly tell a wonderful child like this the truth?

That the hero whose photos covered every corner of this room—the man whose face she hugged every night in the form of a pillow—was actually nothing more than a selfish and arrogant twenty-year-old?

A drunken actor who raged inside his trailer, shouting with alcohol on his breath, and dismissed a desperate mother begging for help as nothing more than cheap drama threatening his privacy?

“No, sweetheart. I didn't meet him. Security would not let me in. I’m sorry, okay?” I replied, swallowing the pain that relentlessly burned through my chest.

At this moment, I felt like the most useless and failed mother in the world.

“I really wanted to meet him, Mom. Since he is here in town, I wanted to see him in person. Especially... before I—”

Jilly paused, her gaze drifting down to her thin fingers attached to the heart monitor.

“Before, I could not see him anymore...”

“Stop, Jilly!” I cut in quickly.

My voice came out louder and sharper than I intended.

Regret hit me instantly when I saw Jilly flinch. I took a deep breath, trying to calm the violent tremor inside my chest.

I could not bear hearing her talk about death. I was not ready. And I would never be ready to let her go.

“Hey, baby... I'm sorry. I did not mean to snap at you,” I said gently, taking her fragile fingers and kissing them over and over. “I just don't like hearing you talk like that. You are not going anywhere. You have to stay here and keep fighting with me. Understand?”

Jilly looked at me for a long moment. “Okay.”

Then she nodded softly, wearing a resigned smile that was far too mature for her age.

“I knew it,” Jilly continued, trying to ease the tension that had briefly settled between us.

A small smile returned to her dry lips.

“If Mom had really met Damon and gotten his autograph, Mom would have cried happy tears the moment she walked through that door.”

My forehead creased as I fought desperately to hold back the tears already gathering in my eyes. “Why would I cry?”

“Because Mom always cries whenever she is too happy,” she answered innocently.

The moment those words left her mouth, every defense I had built since being dragged from that film set like an animal collapsed completely.

Tears burst free and streamed down my cheeks.

I quickly pulled her back into my arms, hiding my shattered face so she would not see it.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry I have not been able to be a good mother for you...”

As my face rested against her increasingly thinning hair, my eyes accidentally landed on the Damon Watts pillow beside her bed.

If my daughter did not adore him so much, I swore I would grab that pillow, throw it out the window, and let it be crushed beneath car tires.

A fierce anger suddenly ignited inside my chest, multiplying my hatred toward that rich, spoiled young man who chose to escape life’s pressures through a bottle of alcohol.

Because of him, my world—which had already been cracked—had now shattered completely.

Damon Watts destroyed my phone, the only valuable thing I owned that contained every photo memory of Jilly, from infancy to the last picture before this damned cancer stole her beautiful hair.

And losing my phone was not even the worst part.

Because of the viral scandal and the disgusting narrative his agency created... Alfred had just fired me from the diner.

My thoughts spiraled wildly, haunted by overwhelming fear as I thought about the mountain of hospital bills piling higher and higher inside the drawer at home.

We had nobody left in Spring Creek.

I had been forced to bring Jilly to this small town a year ago, fleeing as far as possible after my traumatic and painful divorce from my ex-husband, Jason Lee.

Jason was a manipulative and cruel man who abandoned his responsibilities, leaving us drowning in debt and emotional scars. Moving here had been my plan for a quiet new beginning.

But Jilly’s cancer diagnosis destroyed everything.

And earlier this morning, before the disaster on the film set, Dr. Grant had already delivered a horrifying verdict, calling me into that cold hospital hallway reeking of antiseptic.

…

“Her platelet count dropped again last night, Mrs. Pierce,” Dr. Grant had said, his eyes filled with a mixture of professional sympathy and helplessness. “Her body is no longer responding to treatment as effectively as before. Our focus now is making sure Jilly remains comfortable.”

…

Comfortable.

That word kept spinning inside my head like a curse. Comfortable was the hospital’s gentle code for the fact that the medical team was beginning to give up.

Jilly had stage four leukemia. And I was watching my only daughter slowly fade away right before my eyes.

“If Damon met you, he would definitely defend you, Mom,” Jilly suddenly said, breaking me out of my terrible thoughts with her cheerful voice. “He would know that Mom is the nicest person in the world, and he would protect you from those bad people.”

“Yeah... maybe, sweetheart,” I whispered with a bitter smile that hurt to wear.

But deep inside the darkest part of my heart, my thoughts screamed in fierce rejection of her innocent words.

I did not need Damon Watts to be my hero. I did not need a spoiled actor drowning himself in alcohol to save my life.

I would be my own hero. And Jilly’s.

Even if tomorrow I had to crawl through the streets, lose every shred of dignity I had left, and face millions of hateful comments from strangers on the internet, I would never give up.

I would face the cruelty of this entire world with my head held high rather than sit quietly and watch my little girl’s imagination and final hope collapse before its time.