The hospital called at 3:47 AM.
I was in the laundry room. Folding Darren's shirts. The white ones. He liked them pressed a certain way. Crisp edges. No wrinkles along the collar.
My phone buzzed on the dryer. I picked it up.
"Ms. Edwards?" A man's voice. Tired. Gentle. "This is Dr. Patel from Lenox Hill. I'm very sorry to inform you that your mother passed away at 3:47 this morning. She went peacefully. No pain."
I stood there. The shirt was still in my hands.
"Ms. Edwards? Are you there?"
"Yes."
"We'll need you to come in to handle the arrangements. There's no rush. Take your time."
"Okay."
I hung up.
I looked at the shirt. White cotton. Perfectly folded.
I dropped it.
My knees hit the tile. Hard. I felt the impact but not the pain.
I stayed there.
The laundry room was dark. Just the glow from the dryer display. 3:52 AM.
I pressed my palms against the floor. The tile was cold.
She was gone.
Five years. Five years of waking up early and staying up late and making myself smaller and quieter and less. Five years of swallowing humiliation and signing papers and wearing labels pinned to my dress.
All of it so she could breathe.
And now she wasn't breathing.
I touched my wrist. The place where her locket used to be. The skin was bare. Smooth.
I made no sound.
I don't know how long I stayed there. On the floor. In the dark.
Eventually I stood up. My knees ached. I picked up the shirt. I folded it again. I placed it on the stack with the others.
I walked upstairs.
Darren was in his study. The door was open. He was at his desk. Reviewing documents. His reading glasses were on. He looked tired.
I stood in the doorway.
"My mother died."
He glanced up. He looked at me for a moment. Then back at his papers.
"I'll have someone send flowers."
He turned a page.
I waited.
He didn't look up again.
I walked to the bedroom. I sat on the edge of the bed. The room was silent.
I thought about calling someone. But there was no one to call.
My father was gone. My friends from before—they'd disappeared when the money did.
There was just me.
And Darren.
And Darren didn't ask if I was okay.
He didn't ask about funeral arrangements.
He didn't notice when I stopped coming to bed.
I spent the next three days on the couch in the living room. I didn't sleep much. When I did, I dreamed about the hospital. The machines. The beeping.
I stopped eating.
Not on purpose. I just forgot. Food seemed irrelevant.
Darren walked past me on his way to work. He didn't say anything.
Melany called on Thursday. Her voice was bright.
"Freyja, darling. I heard about your mother. I'm so sorry for your loss."
I said nothing.
"I wanted to let you know—I've taken care of the arrangements. The hospital needed authorization for the remains. I handled it. You don't need to worry about a thing."
"What arrangements?"
"Cremation," she said lightly. "It's the most efficient option. And cost-effective. The ashes will be ready for pickup next week."
My hand tightened on the phone.
"I didn't authorize that."
"You didn't need to," Melany said. "The insurance policy lists me as the administrative contact for all end-of-life decisions. It's in the paperwork you signed. Remember?"
I remembered.
The agreement. The clauses. The legal language I'd barely read.
"I'll have them delivered to you," Melany continued. "Unless you'd prefer I keep them here? For safekeeping?"
"No."
"Are you sure? I wouldn't want you to lose them. You've lost so much already."
Her voice was soft. Kind.
I hung up.
I sat on the couch. The phone was still in my hand.
She'd cremated my mother.
Without asking.
Without telling me.
I thought about the hospital. The calls I should have made. The visits I should have scheduled.
But I'd been folding shirts.
I'd been carrying trays.
I'd been wearing a label pinned to my dress.
And my mother had died alone.
I pressed my hand against my chest. There was a pressure there. Heavy. Like something was sitting on my ribs.
I couldn't breathe right.
I stood up. I walked to the window. The city stretched out below. Lights. Buildings. People living their lives.
My mother was gone.
And Darren was in his study.
And Melany was planning something.
I could feel it.
The way you feel a storm coming before the sky changes.
I touched the glass. It was cold.
I thought about the agreement I'd signed. The words I'd written.
*I will do better. I promise.*
I'd kept that promise.
And it hadn't mattered.
She was gone anyway.
I closed my eyes.
The pressure in my chest grew heavier.
I stayed at the window until the sun came up.
