My Dad Brought His First Love Back

After my dad's first love moved into our house and became my tutor, my mom never raised her voice at her again.

She just coughed worse and worse, until one day I found the lab report she'd thrown out. Stage IV lung cancer.

That afternoon, Dad came home with his arm around her, and walked right into Mom sitting on the couch.

There was a flicker of guilt on his face. "Helena, if you've got something to say, just say it. Don't make a scene in front of the kid."

Mom was eerily calm. She pointed at the woman and said,

"She gets on her knees and apologizes to me three times. And you sign over half the company. Then we're done."

Dad thought she'd lost it. But in the end he signed the share transfer.

After that, Mom's pills kept multiplying and her appetite kept shrinking. But she hired the best lawyer in town, and over and over she taught me how to manage those shares once I was old enough.

Dad never figured out the one thing that mattered. Mom was already on her way out.

Fiona moved in on a Wednesday.

Dad walked her into the living room holding her hand, like he was introducing a new piece of furniture.

"Helena, this is Fiona. Old friend from college. Nina's starting first grade and I want her ahead of the curve. Fiona's going to help out."

Mom was chopping vegetables. The knife paused.

She didn't look up. All she said was two words.

"Whatever you want."

I already knew who Fiona was.

Dad had a whole album of her on his phone.

Mom had seen it once. She cried all night, and Dad slammed the door and stayed gone for three days.

After that, Mom never touched Dad's phone again.

Fiona was pretty. She had one of those soft, sweet voices.

She crouched down and ruffled my hair. "Hey, Nina. How about I teach you how to draw, sweetheart?"

I ducked behind Mom. I didn't say a word.

I didn't like her.

Because every time Mom cried, it was because of her.

Fiona took the guest room upstairs.

The first night, I got up to use the bathroom. I passed her door, and light was coming through the crack.

I heard my dad's voice.

And Fiona, laughing low underneath it.

When I got back, Mom's door was shut.

I pressed my ear against it for a long time.

I could hear her trying to keep it quiet. Coughing.

One after the other.

The next morning I took out the trash.

At the bottom of the can there was a crumpled piece of paper.

I smoothed it out. Hospital letterhead, full of words I couldn't read.

But four letters I could.

Lung. Cancer.

I knew what cancer was.

Because Grandma's chart had said the same thing.

The day Grandma died, Mom knelt by the hospital bed shaking, sobbing.

Grandma touched Mom's face and said, "Honey, it doesn't hurt anymore. Mom's going somewhere better now."

Three days later Grandma closed her eyes for good.

I stuffed the paper back to the bottom of the trash can.

Then I crouched in the kitchen corner, biting my fingers. Not a single tear.

I knew then. Mom was going to find Grandma soon.