Tuesday mornings at Riverside Memorial meant thirty minutes. That's what the hospital allowed. Thirty minutes with my mother, under fluorescent lights that made her skin look grey.
I sat in the chair beside her bed and held her hand. Her fingers were thin. Bones wrapped in paper. The machines beeped their steady rhythm. In. Out. In. Out.
"I brought the photos you wanted," I said quietly. "From the Parsons reunion. Willow sent them."
Diane's eyes moved to my face. She couldn't speak anymore. Not really. Sometimes a word would come out slurred and broken. Mostly she just looked.
But she heard everything.
I showed her the pictures on my phone. Old classmates. Gallery openings. People who remembered when the Stewart name meant something.
Her hand squeezed mine.
I looked up.
Her eyes were locked on my face. Not soft. Not drifting. Focused. Urgent.
Her fingers squeezed again. Harder.
"Mom?"
She blinked twice. Deliberate. The way we'd practiced.
*Yes.*
Her gaze slid to the door. Then back to me. Then to the door again.
I understood.
"Okay," I whispered. "I'm listening."
But the nurse came in before she could do anything else. Checked the IV. Adjusted the pillow. Smiled that professional smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Time's almost up, Mrs. Grant," she said.
I hated that name.
I stood. Leaned down and kissed my mother's forehead. Her skin was cool.
"I'll see you Thursday," I said.
I walked toward the door.
"Mrs. Grant?"
The nurse was beside me. Young. Blonde ponytail. Name tag that said *Kristin*.
She pressed something into my hand. Small. Folded.
"From a friend of your mother's," she said quietly. Then she walked back to the bed.
I kept my hand closed around it. Didn't look. Not until I was in the elevator. Not until the doors slid shut and I was alone.
I unfolded the paper.
A phone number. Written in blue ink. Neat handwriting.
And below it: *When you're ready. —W.*
I stared at it until the elevator reached the lobby.
Then I memorized the number. Every digit. I went into the lobby bathroom, tore the paper into pieces, and flushed it down the toilet.
I didn't call right away.
I waited until Thursday. Until my next visit. Until I had an excuse to be out of the penthouse for longer than Elijah's security detail expected.
I locked myself in a hospital bathroom stall on the third floor. Sat on the closed toilet lid. Dialed the number on a burner phone I'd bought with cash from a bodega in Chinatown.
It rang twice.
"Azalea." The voice was warm. Steady. A voice I hadn't heard in years.
Willow Harper.
"How did you—"
"Your mother," Willow said. "She reached out six months ago. Before it got bad. She told me everything."
I closed my eyes.
"She set up an account," Willow continued. "Transferred what she could without raising flags. It's not much. But it's enough. There's a house in Connecticut. It's mine. You can stay as long as you need. And I still have contacts in Europe. Paris. Venice. People who remember your work."
My throat was tight.
"Why are you telling me this now?"
"Because your mother asked me to wait," Willow said quietly. "Until you were ready. She said I'd know when."
"And?"
"Kristin's been watching you for weeks. She said you don't cry anymore. You don't fight. You just sit. Diane was worried you'd forgotten how to leave."
I opened my eyes. Stared at the bathroom stall door. Someone had scratched *GET OUT* into the paint.
"I haven't forgotten," I said.
"Good," Willow said. "Then call me when you're ready to move. I'll handle the rest."
She hung up.
I sat there for a long time. Then I flushed the phone's SIM card down the toilet and walked back to my mother's room.
Diane's eyes found mine the second I walked in.
I sat down. Took her hand.
"I got it," I whispered.
She blinked twice.
*Yes.*
Something cold and sharp settled in my chest. Not hope. Not yet.
But strategy.
Friday night, Jenesis hosted dinner at the penthouse.
She'd redecorated the dining room. New chairs. New curtains. A crystal centerpiece that caught the light and threw it across the walls like broken glass.
She hadn't asked me.
I came home and found the table set for four. Elijah at the head. Jenesis to his right. Lucas in a booster seat beside her.
And me at the far end.
I sat down.
Jenesis smiled. "I hope you like lamb. Lucas helped me choose the menu."
The boy looked up. Sauce on his chin. "Daddy said I could," he announced.
Daddy.
I looked at Elijah.
He met my eyes for half a second. Then looked away.
"That's wonderful, Lucas," I said.
Jenesis poured wine. Elijah's glass. Then hers. She skipped mine.
I didn't ask.
Dinner was lamb. Roasted vegetables. Some kind of grain I didn't recognize. I cut everything into small, even pieces. Chewed slowly. Swallowed.
Jenesis talked about Lucas's preschool. About a birthday party at the Central Park Zoo. About how Elijah had promised to take them to the Hamptons house next weekend.
I ate.
"You're quiet tonight, Azalea," Jenesis said. Her voice was light. Curious. Like she was asking about the weather.
I looked up.
"Am I?"
"You haven't said a word."
I set down my fork. Picked up my water glass. Took a sip.
"The lamb is very good," I said.
Jenesis's smile tightened.
Lucas kicked his feet under the table. "Daddy, can I have dessert?"
"Finish your vegetables first," Elijah said.
The boy pouted. Jenesis laughed and kissed the top of his head.
I watched them like I was watching a play.
After dessert, I excused myself. Walked down the hall to the empty studio. Sat on the floor in the dark.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
*you sat there like a ghost. even your husband can't stand to look at you.*
I read it. Deleted it.
Then I pulled out the burner phone. Stared at Willow's number.
Not yet.
But soon.
