Chapter 4: Scraps and Sacrifice

I used the money I’d earned from part-time jobs at school to send my mom to a clinic.

Sometimes I’d sneak a leftover fry or two while cleaning tables at the Waffle House. After school, I’d clean diners, stock shelves, anything for a few bucks. Every dollar went to her care. My backpack always smelled faintly of old French fries and bleach.

We couldn’t go to a big hospital—I didn’t have that kind of money.

The clinics were always cold and cramped, with peeling posters about flu shots and birth control.

The doctor stared at my mom’s bloodied face, shocked.

He paused, pen trembling, then muttered, “Jesus Christ.”

"This is... really bad. She needs a real hospital."

He looked at me like he was trying to figure out what kind of hell we’d crawled out of.

Not just her face—one of her legs was broken too.

They wrapped it in a dirty cast. I watched the doctor’s hands shake as he wrote notes, like he didn’t want to get involved.

From then on, she was bedridden, needing help with everything—even eating and going to the bathroom.

Our world shrank to that dingy room. I spoon-fed her applesauce and Tylenol, changed soiled sheets, prayed the painkillers would last till morning.

"Better get her to a proper hospital," the doctor said, afraid to treat her further.

He slipped me a card with a crisis hotline on it. I shoved it in my pocket, knowing I’d never call.

I paid for painkillers and antibiotics. Whether she lived or died was up to fate.

My wallet was empty, but my guilt was heavier than ever. I left the clinic with a plastic bag of cheap medicine and no answers.

On the way back, I struggled to carry my mom up the stairs to our room, hands shaking, feeling the weight of responsibility settle onto my shoulders like a lead blanket.