Two

TWO

Aria

One Year Later

"Just stay here."

As unwavering as my father's stance was, I could hear the agony in his tone.

"I can help," I offered.

Dad dismissed the thought with a slight shake of his head. "No. Stay. This is going to be one of the last days you have here, so I want you to enjoy it."

He couldn't have actually believed that was even remotely possible. All the enjoyment was sucked out of my life a year ago, and it never got any better. Enjoying anything felt like an impossible dream now.

"But—"

"Aria, please," Dad begged me. "Your mom and your sister need you here more than I need you there. I've got to get to work, and I'm going to pray for a miracle. If that miracle doesn't come today, I'll be making the call when I get home tonight."

I inhaled deeply through my frustration. I wanted to fight, to tell him we had to find another way, but I knew he was right.

Things were bad.

The worst they could have been.

I'd been pushing so hard for so long—we all had—and had reached what I thought was my breaking point at several moments throughout the last year.

But I'd look at my mom, recognize what she was going through, and realize that if she could do what she was doing, I had it easy.

Unfortunately, willpower and determination would only take all of us so far. It was a harsh lesson I was in the process of learning. It took more than that to battle cancer.

The sad reality was that it was costly. The costs were tremendous. The little savings my parents had was gone in a matter of weeks. I'd been saving up for a place of my own, but my parents needed help with my mom's medical bills. We had insurance, but it didn't come close to covering the costs associated with her treatment.

And it was said that when it rained, it poured.

We understood that better than anyone.

Because as though my mom's cancer diagnosis wasn't enough to contend with, we had something else fall into our laps.

The sales at the store had taken a nosedive. It wasn't an abrupt change, but we certainly felt the pinch. Slowly, with each week that passed, fewer and fewer individuals walked through our doors. And before we knew it, sales had fallen off a cliff.

While we didn't have any concrete proof as to what had caused the decline, we assumed it was a combination of two things. We'd needed to adjust the hours we were open on certain days when Mom was receiving treatment. It was already difficult enough that she was facing this battle; we didn't want her doing it alone simply because money was such a necessity at this point.

But the other reason we likely saw the sales fall off was because of a new big box store that had opened in town. It offered more of a selection, often had cheaper prices, and was always open.

We couldn't compete.

And when it became apparent that folks in town could get everything that they'd used to get from us and their groceries from the other store, we had to face reality.

It was only a matter of time before our front door stopped opening with loyal customers. Because loyalty would only go so far in a situation like this. Times were tough for everyone—the battle my family was fighting wasn't any worse than the next family's war. We all had it rough and needed to do what was necessary to survive.

Unfortunately, for us, it meant getting to this point.

Dad was going to have to make the call when he got home from work.

With very little equity left in the house, he had to put it up for sale. The equity wouldn't be enough to cover us through Mom's treatment and recovery, but it would be enough to get us set up in an apartment with a small buffer. Jasmine and I had both gotten side jobs to help offset some of our day-to-day expenses, but we'd never be able to do enough with the hours we were working to be able to cover the costs of the house and survival.

Whenever I took a step back and reminded myself of where exactly we were, the logical part of my brain understood that Dad's plan was the best option for us. But there was the emotional component to all of this.

Mom was battling cancer, and we had no choice but to move her from the home she loved and raised her family in just so we could afford to put food on the table—a table we might be forced to sell otherwise. We'd already sold just about everything else.

Between the pleading look in my father's eyes and the weight of guilt I felt over the words he'd said—Mom and Jasmine needed me here—my shoulders fell in defeat. "Okay, Dad. I'll stay here."

He stepped forward, wrapped his arms around me, and kissed my cheek. "We'll figure it out, Aria. One way or another, I'm not going to let this family down."

I hugged him back. "I know. We'll see you later, Dad."

With that, he released his hold on me, stepped back, and held my gaze for a few beats longer than normal. He was out the door in a flash.

Then I got to work on preparing breakfast for my mom and sister.

One year ago, it became clear that a cancer diagnosis in a family impacted everyone differently. Mom openly shared her struggle, reacting to the pain, treatments, and inability to do everything she always used to do. Dad had mostly returned to his typical routine, but there was a dark cloud hanging over him all the time now. He'd lost weight, too. The most productive thing my sister did was get a part-time job. She was caught up in her feelings about Mom having cancer and leaned heavily into them. The one area where she excelled was in taking care of Mom. After surgery, she sat with her and helped to physically care for her. And for me, it was all about necessity. I did whatever needed to be done—cooking, cleaning, laundry. I maintained the house, worked all the extra hours I could at my job as a server, and handled all the grocery shopping or appointment scheduling.

I finished getting breakfast ready and carried the plates into the living room. Mom and Jazzy were sitting on the couch, which meant Mom was having a good day. On her bad days, she typically didn't leave the confines of her bed. No matter where she was, my sister always joined her.

"Thanks, Aria," Mom said when I handed her the plate.

"You're welcome."

When Jasmine took the other plate, she murmured, "It breaks my heart that this might be one of the last times we get to eat breakfast in this house."

The last thing I wanted to do was dwell on any more negativity. Jazzy seemed content to live in it, no doubt the reason she was always so emotional.

"It is what it is, Jaz. It's not ideal, but we have to do what's best for everyone in this situation," I reasoned.

"How are we going to leave? This is home."

I shook my head, feeling disappointed. Not with Jazzy, but with the situation. "It's a house. Yes, we've grown up here, but this isn't our reality any longer. All that matters is that we stick together, wherever we go."

"Aria's right," Mom said. "This is all my fault. I hate that I'm the reason we're in this situation, but we don't have any other choice. If we don't do something, we'll lose the house completely. It's better to get out while we can."

"It's not your fault, Mom. You didn't ask to get sick."

She offered a slight nod in return. "I know, but I can't help feeling the way I do. I feel responsible for putting my family in this situation."

"And we're going to get out of it together," I assured her. "We're going to be fine."

There was a moment of silence before she said, "Thank you, Aria. I don't think we would have gotten through this without you. You've been this family's rock for the last year, and I don't think we've ever told you how much we appreciate everything you've done."

"Yeah," Jasmine agreed. "It's nice to know we can always depend on you to be there for us."

I inhaled deeply, offering a small smile in return. I hadn't needed or expected any thanks from my family. This was just what we were supposed to do. But I couldn't deny how good it felt to hear those words from them. It was nice to be appreciated.

"We're family," I reasoned. "We're always supposed to look out for each other."

At that, I excused myself and allowed my mom and sister to finish their breakfast together.

When I returned to my bedroom, realizing I still had several hours before I needed to head to work, I pulled out the one thing that had kept me sane over the last year.

My paint.

My art.

I'd always had a creative side, loved painting, and often did it in my free time. If I ever believed it could have been a profitable career, I would have pursued it from the start. But I was smart enough to know that if I went that route and didn't make money from pouring my soul into each piece, I'd grow to hate it.

So, I kept it as a hobby.

And it had gotten me through some of the darkest days during my mother's cancer treatments. It still did.

Since my art was making me feel better, I thought it might help my family, too. I painted for my mom first. She fell in love with the painting I'd given her, and I'd moved on to Jasmine next. My sister cried when she saw it.

And finally, I'd painted for my dad.

He loved his painting so much; he swore it was his good luck charm. He took the painting to the store and hung it on the wall. He said it put a smile on his face on Mom's most difficult days.

I spent the remainder of my morning working on a new piece—something I'd likely just hang somewhere in the house for the remaining days we had here—but eventually, I had to stop and get myself ready for work.

Before heading out the door, I made lunch for my family and made sure they wouldn't need anything else until tonight. Dad would likely be home from work before I was, and he'd handle dinner.

I slogged through the next several hours at work. The job wasn't necessarily bad, and my coworkers were nice enough, but it was difficult to feel anything but miserable when there'd been so much devastation and despair over the last few months and no sign of improvement anywhere to be found.

By the time my shift had ended, I was glad to be heading home. And that was a bit of a foreign feeling these days. As draining as being at a job I didn't exactly like was, being at home wasn't a whole lot better. Of course, I loved my family. It was just that we all had this illness hanging over our heads, and the crushing weight of it was more than any of us had anticipated.

But since I knew I was going to arrive home to find my father had called the realtor, so we could get our house listed for sale, I felt a sense of relief to be able to return home tonight. Maybe that would change as time went on—it'd likely get worse after we moved into an apartment—but for now, I'd take what I could get.

Only, when I walked through the front door, things didn't go exactly as I'd planned.

As I entered the living room and found my family all there, the looks on their faces told me I had a reason to be happy. I just wasn't quite sure yet what that reason was.

"What's going on? What happened?" I asked.

"Aria, you're the best," Jazzy declared.

"Me? What?"

"We're going to be okay, Aria," my dad said, a look of pride I hadn't seen in a long time on his face.

My brows drew together. "I don't understand. What did I miss?"

"Work," Dad answered.

"I was just at work."

He shook his head, his smile bigger than I could ever remember seeing it. "I'm talking about work at the store."

I was beyond confused. I had not a single clue what he was talking about. "Was it busy today?"

"It's your painting, Aria," Mom chimed in.

While she'd added another piece to the puzzle, I was no less confused. In fact, I found myself even more curious as to what was going on. Frustrated, I asked, "Can someone please explain what you all seem to be so happy about?"

"There's a guy who wants to buy your paintings," Jazzy shared.

"What? Who?"

"By dumb luck, an art dealer wound up in the store today, Aria," my dad shared. "He had some car trouble, and he stopped in to see if anyone could help. His battery was dead, so I gave him a jump. Anyway, after I'd done my good deed, I guess he wanted to patronize the store to show his appreciation. He came inside and saw the painting you did for me. He wanted to purchase it. I told him that was the one thing in the store that wasn't for sale."

I blinked my eyes in surprise. "Are you serious? An art dealer wanted to buy my painting?"

My father was so excited he was pacing back and forth. "I've always known your art was extraordinary, Aria, and this just proves it."

I wanted to feel the same excitement as it seemed the rest of my family did, but I wasn't ready to celebrate just yet. I needed more information.

"Okay, well, I assume you didn't sell the painting to him, did you?" I asked.

Dad shook his head. "No. No, but I had pictures of some of the others you've done, and when I showed them to him, he insisted he needed to purchase them. Aria, he offered me twenty-five thousand dollars for the collection of paintings you did for each of us."

My hand shot out to grip the back of the chair beside me. "Twenty-five-thousand dollars? For four paintings? "

"Yes. He wants the originals, though. We can't just have you paint the same ones all over again."

"That's… that's?—"

"Amazing, isn't it?" my sister interjected.

My head snapped in her direction, eyes ready to fall out of my head. "We can't sell them. They're… they're important. They were made for my family."

"Your family is close to starving, big sister," Jazzy pointed out. "Dad was going to call the realtor today. This might be just what we need to get through this and stay here."

My mom and dad were looking at me with such hopeful stares, neither one of them refuting what my sister had just said.

Those paintings were special. They meant everything to me. And I thought they meant everything to my family.

And they were ready to give them up so easily. Sure, I knew we needed the money, but there had to be another way.

"Can't we… can't I make another set of paintings? I'll do something different than those, but it'll be no less wonderful. I know I can do it."

Dad shook his head. "There's no option for that yet. If these paintings do well, he'll commission more. Then you can make all the paintings you want. And you can make us new ones to have here in the house in place of those originals."

It seemed everyone had made up their minds.

What was I supposed to do?

As much as I wanted to say no, to demand that I be given the opportunity to create something better, my dad had made it clear that wasn't an option. Twenty-five thousand dollars was a lot of money for us right now, and I hadn't seen so much hope in the faces of the people I loved ever before now.

If I turned this down, if I declined the offer, it would be me who led our family to losing our home. Then there would be someone to blame.

I wished there was another way.

Offering a half-hearted smile, I murmured, "I'll go get my painting from my room."

Relief swept through each of their faces. "Thank you, Aria," my mom rasped. "This means the world to us."

And because they meant everything to me, I would, once again, bottle up my feelings and swallow the hurt. I'd do what they needed, what we all needed, despite the way it made me feel.

I swallowed past the lump in my throat. "I know, Mom. I can always make us new ones, can't I?"

She smiled brightly at me, but it was my sister who spoke. "I said the same thing, which is why I already brought mine down for Dad to take back to the store tonight."

"Tonight?"

He nodded. "Yes, Aria. I'm meeting the gentleman back at the store in half an hour."

They'd already decided. My dad had set up to meet the guy with the paintings without ever discussing it with me first. What would he have done if I'd said I didn't want to sell the paintings?

"I'll come with you," I offered.

Shaking his head, he insisted, "No. No, you stay here. I'll run them over, get the money transferred, and be back shortly. It'd be a huge help if you could stay here and prepare dinner. I got back and was so excited to share the news with your mom and sister, I didn't get a chance to cook."

I wanted to argue.

I wanted to put my foot down and demand that Jasmine cook dinner instead. But she wasn't much of a cook, so if we wanted something edible and at a reasonable time, it was going to have to be me who made it.

"Of course. Whatever you need, Dad."

"Thanks, Aria. Now, why don't you run up and grab the painting while I pull out everything you need to prepare dinner?"

Without another word, I climbed the stairs and walked to my room.

Then I pulled the painting off the wall, stared at it for several long moments in my hands, and finally descended the stairs again, my heart breaking with each step I took.