He came back to introduce his new girlfriend, and I came out of the hospital in a wheelchair. One look at me, and his whole perfect life cracked.
Seven years after he left to study abroad, the boy I had loved my whole life finally came home.
Sherman Blake.
The name alone still hurt.
We grew up next door to each other in Maple Ridge. He was the boy who carried my backpack when I was sick, climbed through my window with homework, and promised me at seventeen that distance would never change us.
Then he left for London.
At first, he called every week. Then once a month. Then birthdays only. Eventually, his life became photos I saw online: new friends, new cities, new suits, new smiles.
And now, after seven years, he was coming home to introduce his new girlfriend to his parents.
Her name was Vanessa Reed.
That same week, my doctors told me my cancer had stopped responding to treatment.
Seven years of surgeries, chemo, hospital rooms, shaved hair, false hope, and pain had led to one sentence.
“You can go home now, Lily. Spend your time with family.”
They did not say die.
They did not need to.
My mother cried in the hallway. I did not. I was too tired.
Two days later, she pushed my wheelchair through the hospital exit. I wore a blue knit hat, an oversized cardigan, and a smile I had practiced so she would not break apart.
That was when I saw him.
Sherman stood near the entrance holding a bouquet of white lilies. Beside him was Vanessa, beautiful and polished in a beige coat, her hand tucked through his arm.
For a second, Sherman did not recognize me.
Then the flowers slipped from his hand.
“Lily?” he whispered.
I looked away first.
My mother stiffened behind me. She had never forgiven him for disappearing.
Sherman rushed forward, but Vanessa grabbed his sleeve.
“Sherman, your parents are waiting.”
He did not move.
His eyes traveled over my wheelchair, my thin hands, my hollow face.
“What happened to you?” he asked.
I laughed softly because there was no kind answer.
“Life.”
His face crumpled.
Vanessa looked uncomfortable. “We should go.”
Sherman ignored her. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
My mother finally snapped.
“Because you stopped being someone we could call.”
The words hit him harder than any slap.
Then my doctor came out behind us and handed my mother a hospice packet.
Sherman saw the label.
His voice broke.
“Hospice?”
“Hospice?” he repeated, the word tearing at his throat.
My mother did not answer him. She simply gripped the handles of my wheelchair tighter, her knuckles turning white, and pushed me forward.
“Excuse us, Sherman,” she said, her voice made of ice.
As we rolled past him, the sliding glass doors of the hospital parting for us, I didn’t look back. I couldn’t. I had spent seven years mourning the boy who left; I didn’t have the strength to mourn the man standing behind me, realizing what he had lost.
He showed up at our house the next morning.
It was raining, a heavy, unseasonable downpour. From my medical bed, which had been set up in the living room overlooking the street, I watched him walk up the driveway. He wasn’t wearing a tailored suit today. He wore an old gray hoodie—one I recognized from high school—and he was entirely alone.
I heard the murmur of angry voices at the front door. My mother was trying to send him away.
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