The mention of her mother always left a hollow ache in Lila’s chest. Hannah had died at twenty-six after taking a pill laced with fentanyl. Most of Lila’s memories had faded over the years. All she really remembered now was the smell of vanilla perfume and the way her mother used to sing badly while braiding her hair.
“Grandma… are you sure you can’t come?”
They had repeated the same conversation nearly every day for weeks.
Finally, Nora lifted her tired eyes. “Baby, if these old legs still worked, I’d crawl there myself. But the doctor made it clear—no crowds, no stress, no excitement. My heart can’t handle it anymore.”
Lila remembered the last medical emergency all too well. Flashing ambulance lights. Oxygen masks. Social workers asking questions in voices that sounded gentle but terrifying.
She never wanted to risk losing her grandmother too.
