After my dad's first love moved into our house and became my tutor, my mom never raised her voice at her again.

She just coughed worse and worse, until one day I found the lab report she'd thrown out. Stage IV lung cancer.

That afternoon, Dad came home with his arm around her, and walked right into Mom sitting on the couch.

There was a flicker of guilt on his face. "Helena, if you've got something to say, just say it. Don't make a scene in front of the kid."

Mom was eerily calm. She pointed at the woman and said,

"She gets on her knees and apologizes to me three times. And you sign over half the company. Then we're done."

Dad thought she'd lost it. But in the end he signed the share transfer.

After that, Mom's pills kept multiplying and her appetite kept shrinking. But she hired the best lawyer in town, and over and over she taught me how to manage those shares once I was old enough.

Dad never figured out the one thing that mattered. Mom was already on her way out.

Fiona moved in on a Wednesday.

Dad walked her into the living room holding her hand, like he was introducing a new piece of furniture.

"Helena, this is Fiona. Old friend from college. Nina's starting first grade and I want her ahead of the curve. Fiona's going to help out."

Mom was chopping vegetables. The knife paused.

She didn't look up. All she said was two words.

"Whatever you want."

I already knew who Fiona was.

Dad had a whole album of her on his phone.

Mom had seen it once. She cried all night, and Dad slammed the door and stayed gone for three days.

After that, Mom never touched Dad's phone again.

Fiona was pretty. She had one of those soft, sweet voices.

She crouched down and ruffled my hair. "Hey, Nina. How about I teach you how to draw, sweetheart?"

I ducked behind Mom. I didn't say a word.

I didn't like her.

Because every time Mom cried, it was because of her.

Fiona took the guest room upstairs.

The first night, I got up to use the bathroom. I passed her door, and light was coming through the crack.

I heard my dad's voice.

And Fiona, laughing low underneath it.

When I got back, Mom's door was shut.

I pressed my ear against it for a long time.

I could hear her trying to keep it quiet. Coughing.

One after the other.

The next morning I took out the trash.

At the bottom of the can there was a crumpled piece of paper.

I smoothed it out. Hospital letterhead, full of words I couldn't read.

But four letters I could.

Lung. Cancer.

I knew what cancer was.

Because Grandma's chart had said the same thing.

The day Grandma died, Mom knelt by the hospital bed shaking, sobbing.

Grandma touched Mom's face and said, "Honey, it doesn't hurt anymore. Mom's going somewhere better now."

Three days later Grandma closed her eyes for good.

I stuffed the paper back to the bottom of the trash can.

Then I crouched in the kitchen corner, biting my fingers. Not a single tear.

I knew then. Mom was going to find Grandma soon.

Dad came home less and less.

When he did, he went straight upstairs.

Mom didn't wait up for him anymore.

She didn't cry either.

Before, every time Dad came home late, Mom would sit on the couch waiting till two in the morning.

Soon as he walked in she'd ask where he'd been, voice shaking, eyes red.

He'd get sick of it, smash a glass, call her paranoid.

Mom would crouch on the floor picking up the pieces, crying while she did it.

But now Mom didn't wait.

She went to bed on time and took her pills on time.

She made a lot of phone calls. There were papers all over the dining table.

That evening, Dad came back with his arm around Fiona.

Both their faces were flushed, like they'd been drinking.

Mom was on the couch. The tea in front of her had gone cold hours ago.

When Dad saw her, his arm stiffened around Fiona's shoulder.

He recovered fast, and even managed to sound annoyed.

"Helena, if you've got something to say, just say it. Don't make a scene in front of the kid."

I was tucked around the bend of the staircase, peeking out.

Mom didn't cry.

She didn't even stand up.

She just lifted her eyes — calm, way too calm for a woman whose husband had walked in with someone else.

She pointed at Fiona, and she started talking.

Like she was negotiating a deal.

"She gets on her knees and apologizes to me three times. And you sign over half the company. Then we're done."

The room went quiet.

Fiona went pale and grabbed Dad's arm, shrinking back.

Dad froze. Then he laughed in her face.

"Helena, are you insane?"

Mom picked up her cold tea, took a sip, and said, slowly,

"You think I'm bluffing? Don't sign. But that deal three years ago, and that contract last year. I kept every page of it."

I didn't understand what Mom was talking about.

But I saw Dad's face change.

He shoved Fiona off and walked over to Mom. His voice dropped.

"Helena. Are you threatening me?"

Mom didn't answer. She slid a folder across the coffee table.

Dad stared at it for a long time.

Then he picked up the pen and signed.

When he was done, he threw the pen on the table and pulled Fiona up the stairs.

Fiona never knelt. She never apologized.

But the shares transferred.

Mom folded the signed documents and put them in a brown envelope.

Her hands were shaking.

She coughed twice. There were a few new red specks on the tissue.

She balled it up fast and shoved it in her pocket.

Then she turned toward the staircase.

"Nina. Come on out."

I went over and threw myself into her arms.

Her body was so thin.

Holding her was like holding a bundle of bones.

Fiona didn't move out.

If anything, she was bolder than before.

After Dad signed, it was like he had something to prove.

He moved her things into the room right next to the master bedroom.

At dinner he put her at the head of the table.

Mom sat in the corner, quietly eating her little bowl of oatmeal.

That was all she could keep down anymore.

Rice was too hard to chew. Meat wouldn't go down.

She could maybe finish half a bowl, and only of that.

Fiona made braised short ribs. She set the plate right in front of me.

"Try some, Nina. Your dad said ribs are your favorite."

I picked up my bowl. I finished my oatmeal. I put down my spoon.

"I'm full."

Fiona's face dropped.

Dad slammed his hand on the table.

"Nina. Fiona made this for you. Eat it."

I shook my head.

Mom had told me, don't eat anything she didn't make.

Dad slammed the table again, louder.

"Helena! Look what you're turning this kid into."

Mom set her bowl down and said it flat.

"She's not hungry. Stop pushing her."

Dad glared at Mom, his lip twitched, and in the end he didn't say anything else.

That weekend, Fiona suggested taking me to the community pool.

She said it was hot out, the kid should have some fun.

Dad thought it was a great idea.

Mom said she was coming too.

Dad frowned. "What for? You can't even swim."

Mom ignored him. She got changed and walked out the door behind us.

At the pool, Fiona slid a floatie on me and led me to the shallow end.

Mom sat in a chair by the edge, watching.

Ten minutes in, Fiona's phone rang.

She walked to the other end of the pool to take it. Her voice went all sugary.

"Alex, when are you getting here? I'm dying out here babysitting—"

I was splashing around.

The valve on the floatie was loose.

The air was slipping out, bit by bit.

I started sinking.

Water went over my nose. I thrashed, swallowed a mouthful.

I couldn't even scream.

Fiona had her back to me, still on the phone, still laughing.

It was Mom.

Mom came flying off her chair. She didn't even kick off her shoes, just went straight into the water.

She didn't know how to swim.

She thrashed her way to me, grabbed me, lifted me up above her head.

The lifeguard came running and pulled us both out.

Mom lay on the deck and coughed up a mouthful of water, streaked with red.

Fiona came running over, hand over her mouth, eyes huge.

"Oh my God, Nina, are you okay? How did the floatie deflate? I was only on the phone for a second..."

Dad showed up a few minutes later.

He picked me up and checked me over. Once he was sure I was fine, the first thing he did was go comfort Fiona.

"Don't blame yourself. It's not your fault. The floatie was cheap."

Then he turned and looked at Mom, still on the deck, still coughing.

He didn't help her up.

He just said,

"Helena, you can't swim. What were you doing jumping in? You just made it worse."

Mom got up off the deck by herself.

Her clothes were soaked and clinging to her. You could see the outline of her ribs.

When we got home, Mom sat in the bathroom and coughed for a long time.

I crouched outside the door listening.

When she came out, I said one thing. "Mom. Thank you for today."

Mom ran her hand through my hair. She didn't answer.

Her eyes went red, but there were no tears.