The morning felt wrong the moment I woke up.
The TV was still on from the night before, its glow bleeding through the thin crack of my bedroom door. Normally, I'd smell coffee by now — hear the shuffle of Maria's slippers across the floor.
But the house was too quiet.
I found her in the kitchen, sitting at the table with her head in her hands.
"Mom?"
She lifted her face. Her smile came too quickly, too forced.
"Morning," she said, voice thin.
She stood to reach for a plate, but her hand slipped on the counter. The plate clattered back into the sink, unbroken but loud.
"Careful," I said, rushing forward.
"I'm fine," she insisted, but her breath came short as she sat back down.
Her spoon stirred the coffee she hadn't touched.
At school, I couldn't stop thinking about it.
My pencil stayed poised above my notebook, but no lines came out.
"Earth to Aki," Reya said, leaning across the table.
I blinked. "What?"
"You've been staring at the same page for ten minutes."
I shook my head. "Just tired."
She didn't look convinced.
The next morning was worse.
She tried to stand from the couch and her legs buckled.
"Mom!"
I grabbed her arm, steadying her as she slumped against me.
Her breath came fast, shallow.
"I'm okay," she whispered, but her weight said otherwise.
I eased her back onto the couch, heart hammering.
"I'm calling a doctor," I said.
She started to protest, but the look I gave her cut it off.
By afternoon, we were at the small clinic down the street.
The smell of antiseptic hung heavy in the air; the sound of an old wall clock ticked too loud.
Maria sat on the edge of the exam table, her hands folded in her lap like she was holding herself together.
I sat beside her, sketchbook left at home for once.
The doctor spoke in a low voice, writing notes I couldn't read. Words like "fatigue," "monitoring," and "medication" floated in and out.
Maria nodded, as if she already knew what they would say.
I kept my eyes on the floor.
When we got home from the clinic, Maria slipped into her bedroom to rest.
But after a while, she called my name.
I found her sitting on the edge of the bed, the late afternoon light catching the tired lines under her eyes.
"Sit," she said, patting the chair beside her.
I sat.
Maria looked down at her hands, then at me. "I don't want you to worry."
I stared at her. "That's not how this works."
Her lips curved into a small smile, but it didn't last.
"The doctor said it's not urgent," she said softly. "We'll just keep monitoring, take the medication, rest more. That's all."
"You couldn't even stand this morning," I said, sharper than I meant to.
Maria reached out, her hand warm over mine. "Aki… I'm still here. That's what matters."
I looked down, my voice quiet. "I want to help you more. I'm going to help you more."
Her brow furrowed slightly, curious. "What do you mean?"
I hesitated, then said it: "I'm choosing STEM for senior high. I'm going to be a nurse."
Maria blinked.
"For you," I added, meeting her eyes. "So I can take care of you. Properly. Not just… carrying bags or opening jars. Real help."
Her eyes softened in that way only mothers' do. "Aki…"
"I'm serious," I said, my voice steady. "I'll be your nurse."
Maria's breath hitched, and for a moment, she didn't speak. Then she smiled, fragile and proud at once, and squeezed my hand.
When I stepped outside for some air, Reya was already at the gate.
I stopped, surprised. "What are you doing here?"
"You weren't in class this afternoon," she said.
Her voice was steady, but her eyes flicked past me to the open door where Maria had been just moments ago.
"Oh," Reya said softly when she caught sight of Maria through the hallway — smaller than she'd seen her in her mind, fragile, tired.
Maria smiled, polite but worn. "You must be Reya."
"Yeah," Reya said. "It's nice to meet you, ma'am."
They didn't talk long. Maria excused herself, saying she needed to lie down.
Reya's gaze lingered on the hallway, then turned to me.
"Aki…"
I looked away.
We sat on the front steps.
Reya didn't push, didn't fill the air with questions.
Finally, I said, "She's been sick for a while."
Reya nodded, waiting.
"She hides it. Smiles through it. But today—" I stopped, the words sticking in my throat.
Reya's voice was quiet. "I'm sorry."
I didn't answer.
She didn't expect me to.
That night, I sat at my desk, staring at the blank page.
For the first time in weeks, I didn't draw Aurelia or Seren.
I drew my mom.
Not the smiling version, not the one folding laundry or cooking adobo.
The one from this morning, hair damp against her forehead, eyes tired but still trying to meet mine with a smile.
The pencil shook in my hand, but I didn't stop.
When the drawing was done, I sat there for a long time, staring at it.
I thought about the way she said she didn't want me to worry, even when she could barely stand.
I thought about how her hand felt when she held mine.
I thought about the promise I made — and how I couldn't afford to break it.
I set the pencil down, the weight of it suddenly heavier than before.
Tomorrow would come, and I'd draw again.
But tonight, I just sat there, the paper in front of me, the house quiet around me, holding on to the one thing I couldn't lose.
Chapter 6 End