Chapter 4 – The Weight of the Decision

 

The early hours of the morning brought a strange mixture of relief and anguish. After hours of tossing and turning in bed, staring at the ceiling of the small room we had to move into after losing everything because of my father’s mistakes, I made a decision.

I will not accept Alexander Hawthorne’s proposal.

The idea seemed simple at first. One year. A cold contract, no emotional involvement. Just an exchange of favors: he clears my father’s debts, and in return, I become the convenient wife he needs to uphold his empire.

But as the hours passed and the silence of the night became deafening, I realized what it would truly mean.

I would lose the little I have left of myself. My dignity. My freedom.

I can’t sell myself, even if it means ending the weight that suffocates me. Something within me needs to remain intact, even if it’s just my dignity.

That’s why, by morning, as I left the house, I was certain of my decision.

But it only took a few minutes in my mother’s presence for that certainty to start wavering.

“You’re late.”

Her voice, cold and laden with disdain, greeted me before I could even close the hospital room door. And I knew what was coming. Discouragement hit me hard. Why is everything like this? So difficult?

My mother was propped up in bed, pale but still carrying the regal posture she had never lost, even as the illness advanced rapidly. Her blonde hair, now thin and dull, was perfectly combed. Her nails, even amidst chemotherapy sessions, remained painted red, as if they were a symbol of who she still believed she was.

“I had some things to take care of, Mom.” My voice came out low, almost an apology.

She didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes scanned my face with an evaluative look, as if searching for flaws to point out.

“You look tired. And unkempt. Is this how you’re presenting yourself out there?” She raised a thin eyebrow, a gesture that had always made me feel small.

I swallowed hard, trying not to let it affect me.

“I am tired, yes. It’s been hard.”

She let out a dramatic sigh.

“Hard? Hard is being stuck in this bed, depending on others for everything. You have no idea what that’s like.”

The familiar weight of guilt began to settle on my chest. Since my mother got sick, I had done everything to take care of her. Double shifts, sleepless nights, mounting bills. But to her, it was never enough.

“I know it’s hard, Mom. I’m doing my best to help.”

“Your best?” She let out a bitter laugh. “If you were doing your best, the hospital bills would already be paid. I wouldn’t have to hear the doctors remind me about it every time they walk through that door.”

“I’m trying…”

“Trying isn’t enough, Sophia. It never was.”

Her words were cutting, as always. My mother had a unique ability to turn any conversation into a list of my shortcomings.

She had never acknowledged what I did for her. It had always been this way. Even before the illness, even before everything fell apart.

“And your brother?” she continued, as if following a script. “Is he doing well? Are you taking care of him?”

“Yes, I’m taking care of him.”

“Good. Because he’s this family’s only hope. You know that, don’t you?”

Yes. I knew. I had always known. Leo was the son she idolized, the promise that everything that had gone wrong in our lives could be fixed through him.

“He needs you now more than ever,” she said, her voice adopting an almost sweet tone, still tinged with criticism. “You can’t afford to fail, Sophia.”

“I know, Mom.”

“Do you?” Her voice rose. “Then why are things still the way they are?”

Her words hit like a blow, as they always did. I left the chair where I was sitting and walked to the window, trying to catch my breath, trying to prevent the tears threatening to fall from being seen by her.

“I’ll fix everything,” I whispered.

“I hope so. Because, frankly, I don’t know how much longer I can endure this.”

I turned to her, but before I could say anything, there was a knock at the door.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Carter.” Dr. Henrique, the doctor overseeing her treatment, entered the room. He was a tall man with graying hair and an always serious expression. “Sophia, I need to talk to you about the outstanding bills.”

“I… of course.”

My heart tightened. This was the kind of conversation I knew all too well.

We stepped out of the room, and he led me to the silent corridor.

“Sophia, I know this situation is difficult for you,” he said in a low, almost compassionate voice. “But we need to discuss the bills. The hospital has been patient, but the expenses are piling up, and we can’t continue without a partial payment.”

I knew this conversation was coming. It always did.

“I understand, doctor. I’m trying to get the money.”

He looked at me with a mix of concern and weariness.

“I know you are. But time is running out. We need a payment by the end of the week. Otherwise, we’ll have to consider discontinuing the treatment.”

Those words hit me like a death blow.

Discontinue the treatment.

My mother might be cruel, narcissistic, incapable of showing affection, but she was still my mother. And I couldn’t leave her without treatment.

“I… I’ll figure it out.”

He nodded, but his look revealed he’d heard that before.

When he walked away, I returned to the room with a heavy heart. My mother looked at me as she always did, as if waiting for confirmation that I was incapable of solving our problems.

“So? What did he say?”

“That we need to pay by the end of the week.”

She sighed, as if I had just confirmed what she already expected.

“Then fix it, Sophia. No matter how.”

Her words echoed in my mind as I left the hospital.

“Fix it. No matter how.”

And for the first time, the certainty I’d had in the early morning completely unraveled.

Because maybe… just maybe… I truly didn’t have another choice.