Chapter 2: The End and the Beginning

When the apartment manager found me, maggots had already started growing on my leg.

I was lying face-up on the linoleum, the TV still playing late-night reruns. The smell of sickness was everywhere, sharp and metallic. My world had become so small—just this room, just this pain.

Only a single breath kept me alive.

Each inhale rattled in my chest, like the last note of a song you don’t want to end. I clung to it, afraid of letting go.

It was the first time so many people had come to my place.

Suddenly, my little apartment was crowded—strangers and worried faces, the apartment manager talking in a low voice, neighbors peeking in from the hallway, the faint echo of someone’s dog barking outside.

There was the apartment manager, some folks from the local community center.

I caught snippets of conversation—"Found her this morning," "No family listed," "Is that her son on the wall?"—like radio static in my foggy mind.

A young care worker gently fed me, encouraging me to hang on. Her voice had that Georgia sweetness, gentle and warm as a summer breeze. Her latex gloves were cool against my skin as she offered me a spoonful of apple sauce. "C’mon now, ma’am. You’re tougher than you look. Don’t you give up just yet."

Someone asked, "This illness wasn’t hard to treat at first. How did it get this bad? Where’s her family?"

I couldn’t speak.

My mouth felt full of dust. Words tried to come out, but nothing happened.

They recognized my son from the photos covering the wall.

There were old school portraits, graduation snapshots, and a framed article clipped from the Wall Street Journal. All those years of motherly pride, displayed in cheap dollar-store frames.

"Her son is so famous—a big entrepreneur, on the Forbes list."

"Weird, why didn’t he take her with him when he moved to the States? Last time in the interview, he clearly said all his family was by his side."

Their voices were full of curiosity and confusion, as if I were a riddle they couldn’t solve.

Not long after, they helped me get in touch with my son.

I tried hard to lift my head, wanting to see the man on the screen clearly. The nurse propped up the tablet, and the FaceTime screen flickered. His face glitched on the screen, pixels blurring the lines I used to know by heart. My hand trembled as I reached for it, eyes straining for a glimpse of the boy I remembered, not the man he’d become.

It had been nearly twenty years since I last saw him. Now, he was already a fifty-year-old man. But in my eyes, he was still the same as when he was young. The lines on his face couldn’t erase the memory of his gap-toothed grin, the way he’d once begged for bedtime stories.

I used almost all my strength to call out his name: "Ethan..."

The word caught in my throat, like an old song I hadn’t sung in years.

He just stared at me, then said, flat as a parking lot: "Why are you still around?"

He said it coldly, not a flicker of emotion in his eyes, as if we were nothing more than strangers caught on a glitchy Zoom call.

After saying that, he hung up.

The volunteer called him again.

"How can you do this? Your mother is holding on to her last breath just to see you."

The volunteer’s voice shook with disbelief, her eyes darting between me and the silent screen. She tried to reason with him, to plead.

"The doctor says she doesn’t have much time left. Shouldn’t you come back and handle her affairs?"

There was a sound of impatience on the other end—a sharp click of the tongue.

"To tell you the truth, to me she’s just a stranger. Whether she lives or dies has nothing to do with me."

His words landed like blows, echoing in the sterile apartment. Even the neighbor’s dog went quiet.

"Whether you bury her or scatter her ashes at sea, do whatever you want. Just don’t bother me."

My eyes grew moist.

The tears stung, blurring the photos on the wall, the faces of those watching. I felt hollow, every part of me aching.

Scenes from my son’s childhood to his adulthood flashed before my eyes, one after another.

His first steps across the faded carpet, his hands sticky with peanut butter, his voice on Christmas morning. All the tiny memories that made up a lifetime together.

Suddenly, one scene froze.

I was dazed for a moment.

The world around me faded, replaced by the shine of birthday candles and the echo of laughter from years ago.

I found myself standing in front of the bathroom mirror, my face young again.

For a split second, I thought it was a cruel joke—the kind you only see in the movies. But the face in the mirror was mine, the years unwritten, the hope unbroken.