My heart drops into my stomach when I see Dr. Patel’s name lighting up my phone.
It’s been two days since I got the news about Mom’s declining health, which means two days of sleepless nights trying to figure out how to pull hundreds of thousands of dollars out of thin air. I’ve avoided Vince as much as possible, unable to face him while my world is collapsing.
What fresh hell is on the other end of this call?
“Hello?” I answer, my voice already trembling.
“Ms. St. Clair,” Dr. Patel says. There’s something different in his tone. Not the bland, careful neutrality of a doctor delivering bad news, but something almost… cheerful? “I have some rather extraordinary news about your mother’s treatment options.”
I sink onto my sofa, bracing myself. “What is it?”
“An anonymous donor has come forward to cover the full cost of the experimental protocol we discussed. All expenses paid. Your mother can begin treatment as early as next week.”
The words don’t compute.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “can you repeat that?”
“The treatment has been fully funded,” he says patiently. “By an anonymous benefactor.”
“Anonymous,” I repeat. “As in, you don’t know who it is?”
There’s a slight hesitation. “The donor specifically requested anonymity. This happens occasionally with high-net-worth individuals who prefer to keep their charitable giving private.”
I’m not an idiot. I can hear the careful evasion in his voice.
“But you know who it is,” I press.
“I’m not at liberty to disclose that information, Ms. St. Clair. I’m sure you understand.”
I do understand. All too well.
There’s only one person in my life with the kind of money that could make this happen overnight. Only one person who knows about Mom’s situation and has a reason to care.
Vince.
“How much?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. “How much did they pay?”
Another hesitation. “That’s also confidential. But I can assure you, your mother will receive the absolute best care possible. No expense spared.”
The relief is instant, overwhelming—a tsunami washing away the mountain of fear I’ve been carrying. Mom will get treatment. She has a chance. She might live.
But right behind that relief comes something darker. Something ugly.
How dare he?
How dare Vince swoop in and solve my problems like I’m some charity case? How dare he make this decision without talking to me? Without giving me a choice in how my own mother’s care is handled?
“Ms. St. Clair? Are you still there?”
I realize I’ve been silent too long. “Yes. Sorry. This is a lot to process.”
“Of course. It’s wonderful news, but I understand it’s unexpected.”
Unexpected doesn’t begin to cover it.
“When can I tell my mother?” I ask.
“You can tell her immediately. I’ll be speaking with her later today to go over the treatment plan. We’d like to begin as soon as possible.”
I thank him, go through the motions of gratitude and logistics, but my mind is elsewhere.
After I hang up, I sit motionless on my sofa, staring at nothing, my emotions a tangled knot I can’t begin to unravel.
I should be overjoyed. My mother is getting the treatment she needs. The impossible problem has been solved. I didn’t have to beg, borrow, or steal to make it happen.
But instead of pure happiness, I feel… violated. Like something has been taken from me rather than given.
For my entire adult life, I’ve been the one to figure things out. To make the hard choices. The things I gave up defined me. Sex? Fun? Room to breathe? Not for me, thanks.
And Vince just erased that. With a phone call and a bank transfer, he stepped in and took over.
Worse, he did it anonymously. Didn’t even have the guts to tell me to my face. No, he went behind my back, making decisions about my life, my mother, without even giving me the dignity of acknowledging what he was doing.
But even as anger burns through me, something else flickers alongside it.
Could this be lo—?
I stamp that shit right out.
Because the truth—the awful, undeniable truth—is that I couldn’t have done this myself. I had no solution. Mom would have refused the treatment, and I’d have watched her die, knowing there was something that could have saved her but was forever out of reach.
Vince changed that. Whatever his motives, whatever his methods, he gave my mother a chance at life.
How do I reconcile that with my anger? How do I hold onto my pride when it feels so selfish in the face of Mom’s survival?
I grab my bag and head for the door. I need to get to the hospital. Mom needs to hear the news.
My feelings about Vince will have to wait.
Mom cries when I tell her.
Not delicate movie tears that roll gracefully down cheeks, but real, raw, messy sobs that shake her fragile body and leave her gasping for breath.
“How?” she manages between sobs. “Who would do this?”
I perch on the edge of her bed, holding her hand, choosing my words carefully. “An anonymous donor. Someone with more money than they know what to do with, apparently.”
“But why us? Why me?”
That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Why indeed?
“Maybe they know someone who had cancer,” I suggest, avoiding her eyes. “Maybe they’re just a good person.”
Mom scoffs at that, dabbing at her tears with a tissue. “Nobody gives away that kind of money without a reason, Row.”
“Does it matter?” I ask, more sharply than I intended. “You’re getting the treatment. That’s what’s important.”
She studies my face. “You know who it is, don’t you?”
“I… have my suspicions,” I admit.
“Your boss.” It’s not a question.
I say nothing, which is answer enough.
Mom sighs, sinking back against her pillows. “I always knew there was something more going on there. The way you talk about him…”
“It’s not like that,” I lie automatically.
“Isn’t it?” She reaches up to stroke my cheek. “Sweetheart, a man doesn’t spend a fortune saving a stranger’s life without a very good reason.”
I look down at our joined hands. Hers are so thin. Mine are barely keeping the fraying ends of my life held together.
“It’s complicated,” I finally say.
“Love usually is.”
I flinch at the word. “I don’t love him.”
Even to my own ears, the denial sounds hollow.
“Okay.” Mom pats my hand. “But this—” She gestures around the hospital room. “—is a debt we can never repay. You understand that, right?”
“I know.” My voice comes out smaller than I intend.
“So what are you going to do about it?”
That’s the question—well, one of many—I’ve been asking myself since Dr. Patel’s call. What am I going to do? Confront Vince? Thank him? Pretend I don’t know?
“I’m going to make sure you get better,” I say instead. “Everything else can wait.”
Mom gives me a look that says she’s not buying my evasion, but she doesn’t push. She’s too overwhelmed by the reprieve she’s been given, the unexpected second chance.
We spend the rest of the afternoon discussing the treatment plan with Dr. Patel and his team. The first round starts Monday. They’re optimistic—more optimistic than they’ve been in years.
Through it all, my phone stays silent. No texts from Vince. No calls.
It’s not until I’m leaving the hospital that evening that it finally buzzes.
Working late tonight?
Just those three words. As if nothing has changed. As if he hasn’t completely upended my world once again.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. What do I say? How do I respond?
In the end, I type: Can’t tonight. Still at the hospital with Mom.
His reply comes quickly: Everything okay?
Actually, yes, I write. Some good news about her treatment options.
There’s a longer pause this time. I can almost see him choosing his words carefully.
I’m glad to hear that. Take all the time you need.
