“Hi, I’m Logan,” Logan announced, “Savannah’s boyfriend.” There was a tense beat of silence. Or maybe I was just imagining it, because I knew I didn’t deserve a boyfriend, and maybe Evan knew it, too.
“Evan,” he said. “I’m a family friend.”
Evan took a step back so I could take the place by my mom’s bedside. “We’ll leave you alone with her,” he said kindly, and I saw he was looking at Logan.
“You want to be alone with her, babe?” Logan asked, and I wasn’t sure, but I nodded.
I remembered the last time Mom was in the hospital, how I had crawled into bed beside her. I’d stayed all night like that, protecting her as she protected me.
But I had failed her. I didn’t deserve her company or her comfort.
I put my face close to hers. “I’m so sorry, Mommy,” I said into her cheek, but she didn’t stir. I grabbed her hand. “I’m here now.”
I was so close to her I could almost hear her heartbeat.
I squeezed my eyes shut in silent prayer. Please, God, I’ll give everything back, please just make her well, I prayed—not with my words, but with my heart.
I laid my head down beside her and waited for God’s answer to my prayer.
LIBBY
Three months ago
“Can I get as many toppings as I want?” Margaux asked, gazing upon the colorful bins of candy at the self-serve frozen yogurt place on the Boulevard. I didn’t feel comfortable spending what it would cost to go to the other “happiest place on earth,” but the girls were long overdue for a special treat, so fro-yo would have to do. They loved watching the creamy confection ooze out of the machine, and that they could pull the lever themselves. And we all marveled at the exotic list of flavors—German chocolate cake, lemon chiffon, red velvet cheesecake—and made sure to try them all.
“Absolutely,” I replied. The assortment of toppings was staggering—gummy worms, Oreos, strawberries, kiwis, chocolate fudge. It was every dentist’s worst nightmare. “As many toppings as you want.”
“Even if it costs more?”
I heard nervousness in my daughter’s voice, and my heart broke a little.
My parents never worried about money. We lived in a nice house with plenty of room for our family of five. My sisters and I never fought over the bathroom because we each had our own. My mom had a study for reading, a music room for practicing her piano, and a dressing room with so many shoes she needed a ladder to reach them all.
When things got old—car, television, living room furniture—we replaced them. My parents sometimes haggled over details—What color? How big? Leather or velvet?—but never about how much it cost.
Everything was decided based on what we liked. Should we rent a ski house in Aspen or Stowe? Should we visit Barbados or Greece? Should we buy a Mercedes or a BMW? It was never, Well what’s cheaper? Only, What do you prefer?
Most people would probably consider me spoiled. I understand now that it’s not normal to always have whatever you want, but I never knew anything different. My sisters and I were not ungracious. We said “thank you” and helped around the house. But we were never denied things we wanted because they were too expensive. I was never afraid of being broke, because having to worry about money was not real to me. Until it was.
Since Andy’s career went cold, every choice I made about what to buy was about how much it cost. I chose the spaghetti that cost $0.99 over the one that was $1.79. I bought no-name brands, clipped coupons, and watched for sales. Every purchase was a calculation. If something wasn’t a good value, I didn’t buy it. This was new for me.
I used to have people to help me around the house, but we couldn’t afford that anymore. The first person we let go was our once-a-week housekeeper. I did all the laundry now, mopped the floors, scrubbed the toilets. Not long after we let Rosa go, we reduced our gardener from once a week to once a month. He mowed the lawn and trimmed the trees （I didn’t have the tools for that）， and I weeded the garden and raked the pine needles and leaves. We stopped going to restaurants and Disneyland. I became the art teacher, and dance lessons were put on hold.
It didn’t upset me to have to do these things, yet I felt unhappy. I just didn’t know who I was anymore. I didn’t recognize the thoughts I was having—I’ll wait for it to go on sale, maybe it’s cheaper online?—or some of the things I said to my daughters—you can wear that dress again, no we’re not buying raspberries. Who was this person? I wasn’t someone who tells her children they can’t have raspberries. Or sells her jewelry to pay for food.