“Mom.” She gripped my shoulders. “You’re sick. You take the bed.”
At 12:30 a.m., she cooked for me.
Shrimp and grits. John’s recipe.
I watched her move around that tiny kitchen — the way she added spices, the extra cheese, the dash of hot sauce that made it perfect.
She set the bowl in front of me.
I took one bite and had to close my eyes.
It tasted exactly like his.
“Good?” she asked softly.
“Perfect.”
We ate at her small table — two chairs, scratched wood, one uneven leg.
Her hand never left mine.
After she tucked me into her bed — the only bed — with her only blanket, she kissed my forehead.
“Get some sleep, Mom. We’ll figure this out in the morning.”
I lay in the dark, wrapped in her blanket — the one she’d give up to sleep on the floor.
Then I heard her slip into the bathroom. The door clicked shut.
Her voice came through low and urgent.
“Jerry, it’s me. Can I pick up extra shifts? As many as you can give me.” A pause. “I need money fast.”
My chest tightened.
“I don’t care what shifts — overnight, mornings, whatever. I just need to help my mom.”
I stared at the ceiling.
What had I done?
I’d wanted to test her love, to see if she’d sacrifice.
But lying there in her bed, listening to her beg for extra work, I realized something terrifying.
She would sacrifice everything.
And I might not be able to stop her in time.
The weekend passed like a dream I couldn’t wake from.
Friday through Sunday — May 24th to 26th — three days in Anna’s 320 ft apartment while she worked morning shifts, 6:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m., then came home to cook, to sit beside me, to tell stories about the diner and customers and her someday restaurant.
Friday, Anna asked about the medical bills. I showed her the documents Charles had prepared: $8,365 — diagnostic tests, consultations, treatment plans. She studied them for a long time. Her finger traced the numbers, the hospital names, the dates. She didn’t say anything, just folded the papers carefully and handed them back.
Saturday, she took me to a free clinic on Meeting Street. A volunteer doctor examined me, asked questions I’d rehearsed answers for, wrote a prescription for pain medication. Anna paid $15 from her own pocket — money she probably needed for groceries.
On the walk home, she asked, “Mom, how much do you need total for the treatment?”
I kept my voice steady.
“45,000 for the experimental program in Atlanta. It’s my only real chance.”
She nodded. Didn’t flinch at the number. Just nodded.
Sunday, she made Sunday dinner. Fried chicken, collared greens, cornbread — the meal her father used to make every week.
We ate at her small table, and for a moment, I could almost pretend everything was normal.
After dinner, she took my hands.
“Mom, I need to tell you something.”
My chest tightened.
“I talked to Jerry.”
Starting tomorrow night, I’m switching to graveyard shifts. Anna. “11:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. Seven days a week.”
Her voice was calm. Determined.
“They pay $18 an hour instead of 15. Plus, late night tips are better. People are more generous when they’re the only ones in the diner.”
She pulled out a notebook, showed me calculations in her neat handwriting.
“In six weeks, I can save $4,000. It’s not much, but it’s a start. Then we figure out the rest.”
Four thousand. Six weeks of overnight shifts. Seven days a week.
“No.” I gripped her shoulders. “You’ll destroy your health.”
She smiled.
That smile.
