Page 131 of Rush

With quick precision, the cake is whisked away, and the master of ceremonies announces their first dance.

The band swells into“It Had to Be You”by Frank Sinatra, the singer crooning as Andrew twirls Philippa—her gown fanning out like a dream before they come together, swaying slow and close. The lights dim. Low fog curls across the floor, softening everything into something almost unreal.

Tears prick at my eyes. In that moment, she reminds me so much of Mom.

I sat curled into the corner of the couch, head tilted back, watching my mom and Jack swaying in the kitchen as Nat King Cole’s “Unforgettable” crackled softly through the record player. Jack mouthed the words to her, and her entire face was lit up—eyes fixed on him, glowing with the kind of joy that felt rare and real.

It was their wedding anniversary. They had planned a small trip, something quiet and romantic, but my mom hadn’t been feeling well, so they decided on a staycation instead. Jack made a trip to the local fishmonger, returning with fresh lobsters and oysters, determined to cook a feast fit for his queen.

“You two are so gross,” I muttered with mock disgust, though truthfully, I loved seeing them like that. I longed for a love like theirs—steady, safe, the kind that felt like it had been written into the lyrics of a timeless song.

“Oh, Anak,” my mom teased, still gazing at Jack. “You’ll have a boyfriend one day—when you’re thirty. Then I’ll say you two are so gross.”

Jack chuckled. “Not on my watch. Thirty’s far too young.”

“Maybe I already have a boyfriend,” I said casually, turning back to the journal balanced on the armrest. I let my pen move, scribbling down verses blooming with the kind of love I hadn’t yet experienced. The truth was, I didn’t have a boyfriend. At fifteen, I’d barely managed a first kiss—and even that had been sloppy and disappointing. Movies and songs had really set the bar too high.

Frigid. Ice queen. That’s what the boys called me. All because I wouldn’t put out. Idiots.

I heard the soft pop of champagne being opened, followed by my mom and Jack laughing as they poured the bubbly into tall glasses.

“Can I have some?” I asked, making my way into the kitchen.

“I don’t think so, kiddo,” Jack said, voice firm.

My mom tutted at him. “It’s a celebration—let her have a little taste,” she said, handing me her glass with barely a mouthful inside.

It wasn’t like I hadn’t had alcohol before. Riley and I had shared sips of loll-water or whatever else we’d stolen from our parents’ liquor stash.

I took a sip, the bubbles danced on my lips and tongue.

“Ew. It’s sour. People like that?”

They both laughed. But then my mom’s smile faltered. Her face drained of color.

“Love?” Jack said, his voice shifting from amusement to concern.

Her hand flew to her head, the other gripping the counter. “My head,” she whispered, strained.

Then she collapsed.

“Mom!” I screamed.

Jack dropped to his knees, catching her before she hit the floor. “Vida! Call the ambos!”

My hands shook as I fumbled for my phone. I dialed triple zero.

Everything after that moved in a blur.

Living in a remote coastal town, we were at the hospital within thirty minutes. Doctors and nurses surrounded Jack, firing off questions—persistent headaches, fatigue, bleeding gums. He rattled off a list of symptoms I’d never heard her mention.

The occasional headache, sure. But bleeding gums? Fatigue? It was all news to me.

The days passed in sterile silence and the smell of antiseptic. Eventually, my mom admitted to everything she’d been hiding. The pain. The exhaustion. She’d chalked it up to stress. Maybe early menopause. The local doctor hadn’t pushed for more tests.

Then the word came.

Leukemia.