When I finally reached the hospital and rushed into the ICU, everything went quiet.
A nurse looked up.
One glance at her face told me everything before she even spoke.
“Aria…” she said gently, stepping closer. “I’m so sorry. Your mother… didn’t survive.”
My mother’s funeral felt unreal, like I was just drifting through it without actually being there. I stood beside her coffin like a hollow version of myself, staring at the woman who had been my whole world—now silent, cold, unreachable.
Her last call kept replaying in my head. The way she tried to sound calm. The way she said goodbye as if she still had time.
Inside, I felt completely empty.
Julian never came. No calls. No messages. Nothing.
So I didn’t tell him either. He didn’t know my mother was gone. He didn’t know I had collapsed. He didn’t know I was pregnant. He didn’t know I had already chosen to end it.
And maybe that was the truth—I wasn’t important enough for him to care, unless he chose to. I was just too blind to see it before.