My Fiancé Made Me Watch Their Wedding

Sophie's text came through at 10:47.

*She's doing a full performance. Brought him lunch in a bento box. HOMEMADE. She's standing at his desk right now opening each little compartment and explaining what's in it. I want to die.*

I was sitting cross-legged on the mattress in my new sublet in Brooklyn. Bare walls. One window facing a brick wall. The landlord had left a single folding chair, which I hadn't unfolded.

I typed back a single laughing emoji and set the phone face-down.

The place was quiet. Not peaceful. Just empty. I'd signed the lease online at two in the morning because it was available immediately and because it wasn't his.

My phone buzzed again.

*She just told him she's 'so proud of how he's handling everything.' He patted her hand. Lily I'm going to scream.*

I picked up the phone. Typed: *Don't.*

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

*I can't do this anymore. Watching him pretend you're coming back while she plays house. I can't.*

*Then don't,* I sent.

The dots stopped. My phone went dark.

I had three hours before I needed to be at the hospital. Mom's afternoon window, when the light came through the east side and she was awake enough to talk. I stood and looked around the sublet. Two suitcases. A canvas tote. A life that fit in a corner.

I needed to pack up Mom's apartment. The lease ended in two weeks, and I'd been putting it off because I didn't want to see it empty.

I grabbed my jacket and left.

---

Mom's building was in Washington Heights. Sixth floor walk-up, same apartment for twenty-three years. The super nodded at me in the lobby without asking questions. He'd seen me every week since the diagnosis.

Inside, the air was stale. I opened a window. The street noise rushed in—sirens, someone yelling in Spanish, a car horn stuck on repeat.

I started in the kitchen. Dishes first. I wrapped each plate in newspaper and stacked them in a box. The blue ones with the white rim, the set she'd bought piece by piece from the thrift store on 181st. She used to say they were fancy.

The living room was next. I took down the photos from the wall. Mom at twenty-four in her diner uniform. Mom at my college graduation, arms around me, both of us squinting into the sun. I didn't look at them too long. Just wrapped them and put them in the box.

Then I went into her bedroom.

The bed was made. She'd made it the morning they took her to the hospital, even though she could barely stand. The pillows were fluffed. The blanket was tucked in at the corners.

I sat on the edge and looked at the nightstand. Reading glasses. A water glass with a lipstick print on the rim. A small stack of books she'd never finish.

I opened the drawer. Pens, a notepad, expired coupons.

Then I saw it.

A leather journal, tucked behind everything else. Worn at the edges. The kind with a strap that wraps around to keep it closed.

I pulled it out. The leather was soft under my fingers. I unwrapped the strap and opened to the first page.

*January 14th. Lily called tonight. Said Brody couldn't make dinner because Macy needed him. Third time this month. She laughed when she said it. I didn't.*

My throat tightened.

I flipped forward.

*March 2nd. Saw them at the restaurant on Amsterdam. Lily was sitting alone at a table by the window. I watched for twenty minutes. She kept checking her phone. Finally she paid and left. I wanted to go in. I didn't. What would I say?*

I kept reading.

*June 8th. She told me Brody's firm is doing well. She said it like she was proud. She didn't say she sold her condo to keep it afloat. Sophie told me. I know what he is. I stay silent because my daughter's peace costs me nothing but my own.*

I closed the journal. My hands were shaking.

I sat there on her bed for a long time. The street noise kept going. The sun moved across the floor.

She knew. She'd known the whole time.

I opened the journal again and read every page. It took an hour. When I finished, I sat with it in my lap and stared at the wall.

Then I called Victor.

He picked up on the first ring. "Lily."

"I need to move her." My voice came out flat. "Out of the city. Somewhere quiet. Hospice."

He didn't ask why. "Upstate?"

"Yeah."

"I'll send you options. Give me twenty minutes."

"You don't have to—"

"Twenty minutes," he said, and hung up.

I sat there holding Mom's journal. Eighteen minutes later, my phone buzzed. An email. Three hospice facilities in the Catskills. Each one had a paragraph of notes. *Private rooms. Visiting hours flexible. This one has a garden.*

At the bottom: *Do you want company on the drive?*

I stared at the screen.

Then I typed: *Yes.*

I hit send before I could think about it.

My phone buzzed again. Sophie.

*I just quit. Told him I'm joining Victor's practice. He looked confused. Macy looked furious. It was perfect.*

I smiled for the first time all day.

Then I stood, picked up the journal, and started packing the rest of Mom's life into boxes.