Chapter 2

Staring at Mom's final call on the phone screen, I was suddenly back on that rainy night. The memories came rushing back—details I thought I'd forgotten.

March 2012. I was five.

Rain hammered against the windows. I woke up thirsty, moonlight creeping through the curtains and making shadows dance on the wall.

I walked barefoot to my parents' room, wanting Mom to get me water. The second I pushed the door open, I saw her.

Mom was lying on the bed, her dark hair fanned out across the pillow. The blanket had slipped down to her waist, showing her favorite blue nightgown. In the moonlight, she looked so peaceful.

"Mom, I'm thirsty." I climbed onto the bed and shook her arm gently.

Nothing.

I shook harder. "Mom, Emma needs water."

She still didn't move. Her breathing was so quiet I could barely hear it. I figured she was just really tired, like when Dad went on business trips.

Mom's sick. That's why she won't wake up.

I carefully took a cup from the nightstand and went to get water myself. Then I grabbed my teddy bear and tucked it into her arms.

"Teddy will keep you warm, Mom."

That night, I curled up next to her, holding tight to her nightgown. She felt cold, but I thought it was just because the blanket had fallen off. I tried to warm her up with my little body.

The next morning, sunlight poured through the curtains. Mom was still sleeping.

"Good morning, Mom." I kissed her cheek like always, but it was so cold.

I was getting hungry. I waited and waited, but Mom didn't wake up to make breakfast. So I decided to find food myself, like a grown-up.

I dragged a chair over and climbed up, reaching for the cookie jar on the high shelf. I grabbed too hard and it slipped, crashing to the floor in a million pieces.

I wanted to cry, but I couldn't wake up sick Mom. I crouched down and picked up cookie crumbs from the broken glass, eating them while tears ran down my face.

"Mom will wake up soon. Emma will be good," I whispered to myself.

By the third day, the milk had gone bad. I spit it out and ate stale bread instead. Mom's blue dress had fallen on the floor, so I picked it up and covered her with it.

"Don't get cold, Mom. Emma's taking care of you."

I started doing everything Mom used to do for me. Every morning I said good morning, every night I tucked her in. I even got a washcloth and wiped her face with warm water, just like she did when I was sick.

On the fourth day, the rain stopped and the sun came out. I remembered how Mom loved when I brushed her hair. I climbed up to get her silver brush—it was so heavy in my little hands.

I brushed her hair carefully, the strands slipping through my fingers like silk. I even put my favorite butterfly clip in it.

"You'll wake up when you're pretty again," I said, believing it like I believed in fairy tales.

Then I drew a picture with my crayons: a big person and a little person holding hands. It was crooked and messy, but I thought it was beautiful. I taped it above Mom's bed.

"Look, Mom. That's us. We'll always be together."

But on the fifth day, when thunder started again, I crawled into Mom's arms and she was even colder. Her hair was getting tangled and didn't feel smooth anymore.

I didn't know what death was—I just thought Mom was getting sicker. I got the washcloth again and cleaned her face, hoping she'd feel better.

"There, Mom. Emma's helping you get better."

By the sixth day, I was scared. We were almost out of food, and Mom still wouldn't wake up. I sat holding her hand, which felt like ice.

On the seventh day, someone knocked on the door.

"Mrs. Sterling? This is building management. The neighbors haven't seen you all week." A woman's voice I didn't know.

I hid under the bed, clutching Mom's hairbrush. I heard keys jingling, then the door opening.

"Oh my God!"

Footsteps came toward our room, then screaming. Someone was making phone calls, using big words I didn't understand.

Later, someone knelt down and took my hand gently. "Sweetie, don't be scared. Your mommy... she became a star in the sky. She's watching over you now."

I didn't know what "becoming a star" meant, but I could see the sadness in their eyes. When Linda from next door carried me out, I looked back and saw them taking Mom away under a white sheet.

That was when I finally cried: "Why can't Mom come too? She didn't see my picture yet... She was supposed to braid my hair..."

When Linda changed my clothes, the butterfly clip fell out of my pocket—the one I'd put in Mom's hair. It still had some of her hair stuck to it, shining in the light.

Now, eighteen years later, I remembered that butterfly clip and how five-year-old me thought love could wake someone up from sleeping forever. I finally understood that for those seven days, I wasn't taking care of a sick mom—I was saying goodbye.

I still have that butterfly clip in my jewelry box. Every time I see it, I think of how peaceful Mom looked in those final moments, like she really was just sleeping.