Chapter 5: When Love Isn’t Enough

I lay in bed, replaying everything. The shouting, the tears, the crab—none of it made sense, but I knew things would never be the same.

Her voice was gentle, like nothing had happened. The smell of coffee and toast drifted down the hall.

She smiled, her eyes kind. "Crab melt? Just for you, kiddo."

He did a little dance, grabbing at the sandwich baskets. Mom rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

Mom rolled her eyes and brought out five baskets of sandwiches from the kitchen.

“Go wash up and let them cool.” We raced to the bathroom, Mason pushing past me like it was a competition.

I felt better, washed up, and sat at the table with Mason, taking big bites.

Mason piled more into my basket. “How do you take such tiny bites? Hurry up!”

He teased me, piling more food onto my plate. I stuck out my tongue at him, making him laugh.

I retorted: “The more you eat, the bigger your mouth gets. One day it’ll reach your ears!”

He made a face, pretending to pull his mouth wide. We both burst out laughing.

Mason grinned. “And your lip gloss—you’ll need three a month!”

He puckered his lips, making kissy noises. I shrieked, swatting at him.

I snatched the sandwich from his hand. “You jerk!”

“Hahahahaha!” He laughed, his face full of sunshine, just like Dad’s.

I really like him, my brother.

So I laughed too, copying his wide-mouthed laugh.

Mom laughed, but her smile was mischievous.

“Mason, I’m warning you. If you start acting sassy and wearing lip gloss, I’ll send you to California early, so you don’t make trouble at home!”

Mom is the real head of the family. When she warns us, we both shiver because we know she means it.

She could run a Fortune 500 company or a pirate ship, and we’d still listen. That’s just how it is.

Mason stood up, singing as he ran out. “The more you talk, the crazier it sounds—the more I listen, the less I get!”

He danced down the hallway, his voice echoing. I covered my ears, pretending to be annoyed.

“This brat!” Mom laughed. “When did he learn that song? Using it here!”

“Probably from TikTok.” I laughed till I cried: “He’s such a goof.”

“A total clown. No idea how he turned out this way. Maybe it’s from your great-grandpa.” She smiled, her eyes far away. "Your great-grandpa was a character, too."

I choked, laughing so hard I nearly spit out my food. Mom just grinned, clearly enjoying the memory.

She launched into a story, her voice warm and nostalgic.

She painted a picture of him as a troublemaker, always one step ahead of everyone else. I could see where Mason got it from.

I snorted, nearly choking on my sandwich. Mason peeked around the corner, grinning.

We all burst out laughing, the sound filling the house. For a moment, it felt like nothing bad had ever happened.

She kept to herself, barely speaking unless spoken to. The tension in the house eased, and I started to relax.

She even started setting the table for both of us, making sure we got the same portions. It was a small change, but it meant everything.

She told Dad to let it go, that holding grudges wasn’t worth it. I could see relief in his eyes.

While eating snacks and watching Netflix, Mom told me:

“But Addie, if Grandma ever bullies you behind our backs, don’t be scared. Mom and Dad will never play favorites. Whoever’s wrong apologizes.”

I nodded hard. I squeezed her hand, promising I’d always tell the truth.

He left with a duffel bag twice his size, waving goodbye like he was heading off to college. The house felt empty without his noise.

The silence was strange at first, but I got used to it. Grandma and I settled into a quiet routine, each doing our own thing.

She had stories about the farm, about growing up in a world so different from mine. Sometimes, when she forgot to be grumpy, she was almost fun.

She moved with purpose, never wasting a second. I tried to keep up, but she always finished first.

We’d chat while folding laundry or peeling potatoes. She’d tell me about her childhood, and I’d listen, surprised at how much we had in common.

Before dinner, Grandma called me: “Your parents said they’re working late, so it’s just us tonight. Let’s keep it simple!”

“Okay!” I washed my hands, ready to help. The kitchen felt warmer with just the two of us.

The peas were fresh, bright green, and I tried to be careful not to crush them. My fingers fumbled, but I wanted to do it right.

I asked Grandma where she got them. She just shrugged, saying, "Farmer’s market. Best in town."

She grumbled, but I could tell she wasn’t really mad. It was her way of teasing me.

My hands ached, but I finally finished. Grandma nodded, almost approving.

She smiled a little, and I felt a tiny bit proud.

My palms tingled, the itch spreading up my arms. I tried to ignore it, hoping it would go away.

She frowned, reaching across the table to inspect my hands. "You allergic or something?"

She shrugged, telling me not to be so sensitive. "You’re a city kid, that’s all."

She snorted, but there was no malice in her voice this time.

I smiled, trying to show her I could take a joke.

The rash spread, red and angry. I tried every lotion I could find, but nothing worked.

I stood outside her room, voice shaking. "Grandma, I think I need a doctor."

She waved me off, insisting it was nothing. I wanted to believe her, but I was scared.

She handed me a pot, telling me to tough it out. I hesitated, but did as I was told.

I pleaded, but she just shook her head. "You’ll be fine, Addie. Trust me."

Tears streamed down my face, but Grandma just rolled her eyes.

She said confidently: “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”

Her calm attitude reassured me, so I endured the itch, boiled water, and soaked my hands.

It really hurt. The pain was sharp, but I didn’t want to complain.

I bit my lip, trying not to cry out. The steam fogged my glasses, making it hard to see.

She shrugged, telling me to keep going until it stopped itching. I nodded, trying to be brave.

I changed the water three times before my palms felt a bit better, but that night, when I lay down, I suddenly couldn’t breathe.

It was like I’d forgotten how to breathe. I opened my mouth wide, but I wasn’t getting any air—my vision blurred.

Before passing out, I staggered to Grandma’s door, crying and begging her to take me to the ER.

“I… I can’t breathe…” The words barely came out, my lungs burning. I thought I was going to die.

She opened the door, looking annoyed at first, but her face softened when she saw me crying.

“Maybe you have a fever.” She said it like it was no big deal, but I could tell she was scared.

She shuffled to the kitchen, muttering about old remedies. I wanted to scream.

I clung to her arm, begging her to take me. She pulled away, insisting I was overreacting.

She scolded me, telling me to toughen up. I sobbed, feeling helpless.

Her words stung, but I was too sick to care. I just wanted help.

The world narrowed to a single point of pain. I thought of Mom, of Dad, of Mason. I didn’t want to die.

She pulled away, insisting she knew best. I felt myself slipping away.

She searched the medicine cabinet, but everything was expired. I watched, barely conscious.

The smell of garlic filled the house. I gagged, my stomach twisting.

I tried to call out for help, but my voice was gone.

I tore through her things, desperate to find a way to call Mom or Dad.

I searched everywhere, making a mess, but couldn’t find a phone, and Grandma caught me after she finished boiling garlic water.

“Oh, so you still haven’t dropped your tattletale habit! Come here!” She grabbed my arm, dragging me back to the living room. I tried to resist, but I was too weak.

The smell made my eyes water. I shook my head, refusing to drink.

I sobbed, my voice barely a whisper. She stared at me, stunned.

She stood there, uncertain. I saw a flicker of fear in her eyes.

I told myself, Go find someone—anyone—who can help.

The night air hit my face, cold and sharp. I stumbled across the lawn, banging on Mrs. Phelps’ door.

Mrs. Phelps, half-asleep, stared at me on her porch, confused. “Oh, honey…” She knelt beside me, her hands gentle. I clung to her leg, begging for help.

Grandma tried to pull me away, but Mrs. Phelps shook her head, sensing something was wrong.

I looked up at her, my vision blurring. "Please," I whispered. "I need a doctor."

The world faded, and I let go, trusting Mrs. Phelps to save me.